Here We Go Again
by Mookie 821
Summary: It hadn't always been that way. In the beginning, they'd all been scrambling to put their lives back together...  Trowa/Quatre, post-EW
1. Chapter 1

Title: Here We Go Again  
>Fandom: Gundam Wing<br>Pairing: Trowa/Quatre, others may be implied.  
>Word count: 3,766<br>Warnings: Slash, angst, language, plot contrivances*, possible liberties with canon based on faulty memory

*Let's just say that I think this would have qualified for the 2011 (or was it 2010?) Moments of Rapture contest, "everything old is new again".

Notes: I heard the song _Here We Go Again_ by Demi Levato many times on the Radio Disney CD, and it eventually spawned a fic idea. The more I listened to it, the more I pictured the protagonists just had to be Trowa and Quatre. While lyrics from the song precede each chapter, this is not a song fic, nor will the chapter content be forced to fit the lyrics exactly.

* * *

><p><em><em>I throw all of your stuff away<br>Then I clear you out of my head  
>I tear you out of my heart<br>And ignore all your messages...__

Trowa opened the door to his new studio apartment. The inside was as he remembered - sparse, clean, and best of all, familiar. He set down his olive green duffel bag and sat on the floor next to it. Although he was past the stage of worrying that someone would sneak up on him, the feel of the wall against his back was reassuring. As the saying went, today was the first day of the rest of his life, and it was good to be home. And it was home, because it was his - for four hundred credits a month.

There were dust motes in the air, he noticed. He'd never seen any at his last place of residence, but both the furniture and the decor were to blame for that. He hadn't needed the opulence. More than one argument had involved Trowa reminding Quatre that he didn't belong there. He hadn't realized how much it bothered him until their last fight, when he'd finally blurted out what he and everyone else, save Quatre, thought.

_I'm a kept man. Your boy toy, and you're too blind - too naive - to see it._

It was just one of many reasons why the relationship failed, but Trowa had always known it was doomed, right from the very start. It was why he'd fought so hard against it, but memories of Heero droning on about following his emotions, combined with Quatre's quiet persistence, had worn him down. It wasn't his friends' fault; Trowa blamed no one but himself. It was his own fault for wanting to believe in a fairy tale, at least for a little while. He'd postponed it long enough, though.

_"What are you-" Quatre stopped abruptly and looked around the room. His gaze finally settled on the overstuffed bag on the floor next to the bed. "I see."_

_Trowa realized that he'd known all along that Quatre _would_ see. For someone with no tactical training, Quatre was brilliant when it came to looking at a situation and evaluating it. Heero had known it, too, or he'd have never trusted Quat with the Zero System. He hoped that would make this encounter easier; he hadn't wanted an emotional scene_

_"I wouldn't have left without saying good-bye." He meant it. He would never sneak out like a thief in the night; he owed Quatre at least that much._

_He thought he detected the tightening of a muscle in Quatre's jaw. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. The clock in this room was electric and their watches were digital, but Trowa would swear he could still hear a steady tick-tock somewhere in the background._

_"Well," Quatre said finally._

_Trowa frowned slightly. He'd not wanted a scene, but he'd expected more of a reaction than this. He hadn't wanted Quatre to try to change his mind, because this had been a long time in coming. This wasn't what he wanted. Except it was. He owed Quatre more than a simple good-bye. Quatre would understand. He was that kind of person. The least Trowa could do was give him the courtesy of a breakup speech. It was too bad he hadn't prepared one ahead of time._

_"It's not anything you did, Quatre," Trowa began. "It's..."_

_Quatre held up his hand to halt any attempt at an explanation._

_"I know," he said quietly. "It's not me, it's you."_

_Trowa's frown deepened. Hearing Quatre say it made him feel that Quat agreed with him. Which was what he'd wanted, kind of._

_"Quat..."_

_Quatre swallowed. "I think it best that neither of us say anything right now. We might say something we'll regret later." His expression softened, and his eyes looked suspiciously bright. Trowa felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. The look on Quatre's face was exactly what he'd hoped to avoid._

_"I'll call you later," Quatre said, and he turned to leave the room._

_No, this wasn't what he'd wanted._

_"Quat," he repeated, and Quatre stopped in his tracks. "Don't. Don't call me. It will just make it harder for both of us."_

_"I see," Quatre said again, before walking out of the room and out of Trowa's life._

Trowa sighed. He'd gotten what he wanted, all things considered. A clean break, a fresh start. A chance to discover who he was after the war, without the expectations of others directing his future. He'd seen what happened to Heero after the war. He'd been expected to stay with Relena. He was expected to be a hero and a role model, both of which clearly made him uncomfortable. Trowa vowed that he would not suffer the same fate.

It hurt, but he'd expected it to. If nothing else, it validated his emotions.

A faint breeze came through the bathroom window, which had been left open to air out the apartment. The dust motes swirled around quickly, then settled once more, the disturbance in their past. It was just like life. Things came along to disrupt the pattern, but they always returned to the way they'd been. The dust motes continued their dance. In his head, Trowa played a simple melody to match the slow movements. He sat that way, watching unblinkingly, until his eyes began to feel like sandpaper. He blinked a few times and turned his head from side to side to work out the kink in his neck.

His cell phone chimed once. Trowa reached into his breast pocket to retrieve it. Without looking at it, he deleted the message. It might not have been from Quatre, but he doubted it.

He opened the duffel bag and shoved the phone deep inside, beneath the few articles of clothing he had brought with him, and drew the strings of the bag taut. He heard a car drive past the apartment, at least a decade old from the sound of it, and then there was silence, except for the melody in his head. He resumed watching the dust motes until his eyes grew heavy. For the first time in 36 hours, he slept.

* * *

><p>It was dark out when he woke up and he could hear a cricket somewhere in the apartment. The kink in his neck was now a dull ache, but it was a small price to pay. The pain gave him something to focus on, as did the pins and needles in his extremities when he got to his feet. It reminded him of the days when he'd slept on a thin blanket on the hard ground, when he'd needed to rely on himself as much as the other mercenaries he traveled with. It was part of who he was. Everything from this point on was what would determine the man he would become.<p>

He was no longer a soldier, but he wasn't a hero. Maybe he hadn't really been a rich man's sexual pastime, but he'd never really been a boyfriend either. They'd needed each other for a time - Trowa knew about that from the mercenaries - but that time had been very brief. The sex had been good; better than good, and he blamed his sexual urges for delaying the inevitable as long as he had. Quatre had been eager to please and adventurous and the way he looked at the moment of climax was the hottest fucking thing Trowa had ever seen, but it was still just sex.

Trowa yanked open the button on his fly. The memory of Quat sprawled on the bed, slick with sweat and gasping for air as he came, was still a little too fresh in Trowa's memory and now he was aroused. He took care of it the same way he'd done in secret in the past, and as soon as he was done, his stomach growled, reminding him that he'd last eaten sometime yesterday. He stumbled to the bathroom, washed his hands in the dark and wrinkled his nose at the musty smell. It was no wonder the window had been left open.

It was just a few steps to the door, which meant the light switch was there, too. The bulb in the overhead fixture hummed as he walked back to his knapsack, and he rummaged through it for the tin of sardines and loaf of bread he'd picked up on his way home. There was no point heading toward the corner of the room where the hot plate and cubic refrigerator were located. It wasn't the kitchenette that the listing had described, but it was still more than Trowa was used to. He didn't count the last year of his life; he'd never grown used to the comfort and luxury of Quatre's mansion or the servants.

His supper was lacking. The sardines dripped oil all over his chin and shirt, and the bread was bland and doughy. It was what he'd wanted, though, this sort of simplicity. There had been a time when he'd have considered this sort of meal delicious beyond compare. He wiped the back of his hand across his chin and dunked the spongy slice of bread in the tin again.

He chewed, swallowed, and managed not to grimace.

Delicious.

When he was done eating, he walked to the sink in the kitchenette and ran the faucet. The water was clear and there was no foul odor, so he tipped his head to the side and drank from the tap, ignoring the metallic taste, until his thirst was quenched.

He just had to allow himself a little more time than he'd expected. It was his own fault; he'd become too accustomed to Quatre's world, to being little more than a pretty adornment for a boyishly handsome young executive.

Resentment flared, and he sat back down against the wall. He never should have let it go on as long as he had. Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he'd visit the thrift shop for something that would fit in the apartment. Something simple and serviceable. The apartment was still more luxurious than anything he'd had before the war, and the neighborhood was, for the most part, quiet.

There was a slight popping sound as the overhead light winked out, and Trowa kicked his bag to the side, punching it a few times to move the clothes around. He laid his head on the makeshift pillow and sighed.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow would be the first day of the rest of his life.

* * *

><p>He groaned when he got up. Sleeping on the floor after months of down feather beds and more pillows than a man needed took some getting used to. The smell of sardines, only mildly pungent the night before, was now almost cloying. Trowa pulled up the hem of his shirt, wrinkled his nose in disgust, and pulled it over his head.<p>

One of his legs crumpled beneath him as the pins and needles returned, and he placed both palms against the wall as he shook out the offending foot. He eighteen, not eighty, and there was a lot he needed to get done today before it got dark, but he took the time for a downward facing dog, a half lord of the fishes, and a triangle pose before heading for the shower.

The hot water didn't run out until he'd nearly finished rinsing, indicating he had to limit his showers to seven minutes. He made a mental note to add shampoo to his shopping list, along with toilet paper, sponges, and a few plates. He'd find most of what he needed at the dollar store, He was sure he'd driven past one yesterday.

He found his cell phone at the bottom of his bag while searching for clean clothes, and he scrolled through the calls that had come in, deleting each of them off the call log. He was relieved to see there was no new voice mail, but sometime during the night he'd received two text messages. He deleted them both without reading them, but because he was paying more attention to his phone than to where he was walking, he tripped over one of his shoes.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. If anyone at the circus could see him now, they'd never let him anywhere near a high wire.

He looked around the small room, determining what would fit and what would be most versatile. He wanted a return to simpler times, but he wasn't about to martyr himself out of rebellion against the luxury that had suffocated him for the past year. A coffee table, maybe one with drawers or a movable top. An armchair, preferably a recliner, where he could sit to eat, read, and use for sleeping if the floor proved to uncomfortable. He glanced up. Light bulbs. He definitely didn't want to forget light bulbs.

He walked around the apartment a few times, creating a list in his cell phone that he added to each time he went in and out of the bathroom. It was going to have to do, because he could only stare at the blank walls and bare carpet so many times.

At least he had a flat bed pickup truck. It was going to make it a lot easier if he could get it all in one trip.

He did, too, and he brought the flimsy plastic bags filled with cleaning supplies and cheap linens up the flight of stairs to the apartment. He dumped them all on the counter next to the hot plate and went back down for the coffee table.

That was when he realized he'd been prematurely proud of his success. He stared at the coffee table and armchair, then at the entrance to the apartment. This was a two man job, definitely, but there was no way in hell he would call Quatre. Duo was out as well - too far away - but he was sure Heero would be able to swing by before it got dark, and he still had the ex-pilot's number in his list of contacts. He crossed the fingers of one hand when the phone began to ring.

"Yuy."

Trowa breathed a sigh of relief and uncrossed his fingers. "Heero, it's Trowa."

"Barton," Heero acknowledged.

"Hey. Listen, I'm really sorry to bother you, especially on such short notice, but-"

"What do you need?"

For a guy who could talk your ear off when he wanted, he could also be brutally short and to the point. Which was just fine with Trowa, because the sooner he settled in, the better.

"I need some muscle."

"The Maganacs aren't enough for you?"

Trowa could picture the expression on Heero's face, bushy eyebrows raised, look of barely contained tolerance.

"Yeah, well, see-"

Heero either did see or just didn't care, because he cut him off again. "I'm tied up with Relena until this weekend. Can it wait until then?"

Trowa eyed the furniture in the bed of his truck and frowned. If he had to, he could, but it would be just as easy to pay a neighborhood kid to help him haul it up the steps.

Heero obviously took his silence for disagreement. "Call Chang. I'm sure his partner would be happy to let you have him for an hour or two." He paused, then added, "You still have _his_ number."

Whether Heero meant that as a reference to himself or to Quatre, Trowa wasn't sure, but the idea of getting Wufei to help him wasn't a terrible one. It was just that he'd never really grown comfortable with Wufei, especially after that whole Mariemeia thing.

A loud screech came over the phone, causing Trowa to wince in pain. Wherever Heero was, he was close to something that was interfering with the signal on his phone. Trowa caught only snatches of what Heero was saying but couldn't hear any actual words. Finally he gave up and disconnected the call, raking his fingers through his hair in frustration.

He took a deep breath. This was what he wanted, though. Independence. For that, he was going to need an infinite supply of patience. He could do this. He'd worked undercover. He'd worked with gaining the trust of the circus animals.

If Heero thought Wufei would be able to help him, there was no reason why he shouldn't at least call to ask him.

He located Wufei's number and dialed.

* * *

><p>Two hours later, the coffee table and the recliner were both in the apartment, in the far corner where it left more open space in the middle for Trowa to do his morning yoga. Already it was beginning to look a lot more like home.<p>

"Thanks, Wufei," he said, turning to his friend. "You saved me a lot of time. I owe you."

Wufei was looking around the apartment, too, but there was no telling what he thought of the place.

"The least I could do is offer you a cup of coffee," Trowa said, gesturing toward the hot plate. He probably didn't imagine the slight wrinkling of Wufei's nose.

"I have to get back to work."

Trowa nodded. "Right. I appreciate your coming over on such short notice to help me get that stuff up here. Please let Sally know I appreciate her covering for you, too."

"She knows."

"Oh."

A small wrinkle formed between Wufei's eyebrows. "I will tell her again anyway."

Trowa smiled at him then. "OK. Would you like a cup of coffee for the road? Maybe one for Sally?"

Wufei was backing up toward the door now. "You owe us nothing." He gave a pointed look at the pile of plastic bags in the kitchenette area. "And I would not like to keep you from your work."

Trowa followed him to the door and watched him walk down the hall, raising his hand in a gesture of farewell. He wasn't sure what to make of all that, but he couldn't argue. Wufei was right. He still had things to do, and if he finished early enough, he was going to walk down to the corner deli for the biggest sandwich they had on the menu, because he was starving.

* * *

><p>Heero looked around the apartment appraisingly, and Trowa held his breath, waiting for a reaction, any reaction.<p>

"One door in and out," he observed, "And one window." The bathroom window wasn't large enough for a cat to get in and out, let alone a person. Trowa got the impression that Heero approved, but not for the reasons he'd hoped.

"I noticed that," he lied. "But besides that," he gestured around. The _What do you think? _remained unasked.

Heero stared at him, that weird, intense stare he was so good at. It was worse than the thoughtful look Quatre would give him, although both men had a way of making him feel as if they could read his mind.

"I think you need to prove something to yourself."

Trowa gave a short bark of laughter.

"I'm that obvious?"

Heero shook his head slowly. "No. Not too everyone." It looked like he wasn't going to say anymore, then he shrugged one shoulder. "Let's just say I understand."

It was probably none of his business, but now Heero had him curious. "So then, you and Relena?"

"I would die for her," Heero said fiercely. "Do not mistake my loyalty. I love her."

As tempting as it was to nudge Heero along or to attempt to finish the train of thought, Trowa wisely chose to remain silent.

"I am not in love with Relena. I'm not enamored of my job, but I owe her."

The temptation was too great, now, and Trowa was feeling reckless.

"So you two never, you know."

Heero bestowed him with a glare so icy, Trowa could feel the hairs on his arms stand up straight.

"I would never lay these hands on her in that way."

It didn't exactly tell him if Heero lusted after Relena from afar, but there was nothing in his voice that suggested anything of a more personal nature to their relationship. He should have known that Heero wasn't going to take the intrusions into his personal life without retaliation, however.

"Unlike you."

"I never touched her!" Trowa was outraged that Heero could accuse him of any such thing, then he realized belatedly exactly what Heero was saying. He could still try to bluster through it.

"I'm not talking about Relena, and you know it."

"That's none of your business!"

Now that Trowa was the one in the hot seat, Heero leaned his shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms. He was enjoying it, the bastard.

"No more than my relationship with Relena is yours. The only difference is that while everyone thinks I _might_ be sleeping with her, no one dares bring it up. You, on the other hand," Heero shrugged that same shoulder again. "Everyone _knows_ that you and Quatre were fucking each other senseless for months, if not years."

Trowa slammed his hand against the wall. "Leave Quatre out of this, Heero, or I will punch your smug little face."

That seemed to amuse Heero.

"I'd like to see you try."

He did, and Heero, predictably, blocked him and shoved him backwards. They circled each other a few times, Trowa throwing punches like he meant it and Heero doing no more than deflecting every one, with no attempt to strike him.

Trowa finally threw his hands in the air in defeat. "Fine! Believe what you want. Just leave Quatre out of your sick little fantasies."

"Quatre has never played a part in my fantasies." He gestured between the two of them. "Let me know if this worked."

"What do you mean?"

Heero was smart enough to wait until he was in the doorway to deliver his parting shot.

"If spending all your energy on a losing fist fight keeps you from jerking off tonight."

Heero slammed the door in Trowa's face. Trowa yanked it open and yelled after him, "You're an asshole, Yuy!"

He would swear Heero flipped him the bird before the door to the stairwell swung shut behind him.

Heero was an asshole all right. His sex life with Quatre was their own personal business and Heero was just trying to get him angry, to get back at him for any accidental insults he'd levied at Relena. Just because he'd had one last pud pulling session yesterday while thinking of Quat didn't mean he was going to indulge in that kind of thing again. Last night had been the bridge between his past and his future.

The shower he took before going to bed lasted thirteen and a half minutes.


	2. Chapter 2

__I tell everyone we are through  
>'Cause I'm so much better without you<br>But it's just another pretty lie...__

**January AC 199**

"Mr. Winner?" his assistant asked for the third time.

He looked up, blinking a few times as if he didn't recognize her, and then smiled wearily. "I'm sorry, Vanessa. I was just..."

"I understand," she said, tentatively patting his shoulder. "And if I may say, Mr. Winner, you've been working yourself too hard. You always work yourself too hard, but especially the past few weeks."

He knew. Trowa had often told him the same thing. It had led to a few arguments, when Quatre had gone home to a cold supper and an even colder boyfriend.

It hadn't always been that way. In the beginning, they'd all been scrambling to put their lives back together. Heero and Quatre fell into the roles expected of them, while Duo had gone into the salvage business with Hilde, and Wufei had allowed Sally and Noin to recruit him into Une's Preventers.

In Quatre's opinion, Trowa had struggled the most. The circus was the one place Trowa seemed to thrive, but a circus performer spent most of his life on the road. Trowa had given that up in an attempt to end his nomadic lifestyle, and Quatre had gladly found him a position. It wasn't just because Trowa was his friend, although he'd have done so anyway, but because he knew Trowa could be trusted. He'd known that even when Trowa had worn an OZ uniform. He didn't think there had ever been a time when he hadn't believed in Trowa Barton.

Quatre had always been a little empathic, although when he was younger, angrier, and more self-centered, he chose to ignore any hints of it. With Trowa, he felt it more strongly than with anyone else, and once he'd allowed himself to feel, it was like a faulty tap. Sometimes he would only get a brief spark in his chest, a hint of emotion. Other times, especially in a crowd, it was like a flood, overwhelming to the point where Quatre experienced near panic. Those were the times when he struggled to sort his own feelings out of the mire, when they became too jumbled up with everyone else's.

He'd gained a little control over it, but he tended to let it slip when he was with Trowa, the only person he truly trusted with his feelings, because they often closely mirrored his own. He supposed in a way it was a violation of trust, but he'd never considered it that way, and he'd never deliberately tried to determine what Trowa was feeling. It had always just been there.

"Mr. Winner," Vanessa said, using the singsong tone of voice she used when she'd been trying to get his attention for a while. "Would you like me to cancel the rest of your meetings for the day?"

Quatre shook his head. "No," he said, reaching for his coffee mug. He drained the cup, not caring that it had been sitting there since morning. "I just need to take a walk around the building and I'll be fine."

Vanessa looked at the dark ring remaining at the bottom of the mug and picked it up.

"I'll bring you a fresh cup," she said cheerfully.

"Thanks," Quatre said, pushing his chair away from the desk and getting to his feet. "I'm going to need it."

* * *

><p>"Mr. Winner, clearly you see that there is no market for it."<p>

Quatre pointed the remote at the overhead projector, ending the slide show presentation. "If that were the case, this meeting would be a waste of your time as well as mine."

Nathan Burns, president of sales, spun his chair in a circle, making a sweeping gesture around the room. "And where is Mr. Barton? I expect he would have told you the same, were he here doing his job."

"It so happens that Mr. Barton has been called away on urgent family business."

"Called away?" Nate asked. "Or resigned?"

Quatre bristled at the implication. Over the past eighteen months, Quatre had learned the lexicon. Resigned meant one of two things; either someone found a job with more money, more power, or more creative rein - or more often, they were asked to resign to avoid the stigma of termination.

"Mr. Barton's whereabouts are-" he clamped his mouth shut, but it was too late.

"None of my concern?" Nate asked. "I'd say the whereabouts of my VP of sales is very much my concern, especially when there's been no word from him, or from you, for the past five weeks. Be straight with me, Quatre," he said, dropping the formality. "If I need to bring a replacement up to speed, I should be the first to know." One look at Quatre's expression, and he added, "After you, that is, sir."

Quatre stared at the last slide on his laptop, a blueprint of an old-fashioned feline hip replacement, intended for pet owners who could not afford the more sophisticated bio-electrical prosthetics. He turned the computer off and closed the screen.

"I'll have Vanessa post the position first thing in the morning." He stood up and tucked the laptop under his arm. "If there are any candidates you feel are best suited, please forward their names to me before the end of the week."

He didn't wait for Nate to respond. There was no need to.

Back in his office, Quatre sorted through the papers on the conference table without seeing them. He'd behaved terribly to Nate, who had been more like a father to him than a mentor. Quatre might be able to lie convincingly to most people, but Nate had known him since he was a boy. He shouldn't have even tried to cover up Trowa's absence. Nate deserved better than that.

It was just that he hated hearing anything that reminded him of those fights he'd had with Trowa, the ones where Trowa belittled his own abilities. No matter how often he tried to tell Trowa that he was good, damn good, at the job, Trowa refused to see it. He took to heart the rumors, and he refused to listen when Quatre tried to refute all the criticism. He'd heard it all before, when his sister had worked for their father; when he'd taken over the company himself; when any woman who wore a C-cup or larger earned a promotion of any kind. He'd tried to explain to Trowa that it was no different than the cutthroat culture of OZ, something that Trowa had surely seen or heard while he was there. That conversation had come out all wrong, and somehow he'd either insulted Trowa or questioned his loyalty, He'd felt the waves of anger emanating from Trowa, hot and stifling, and Quatre had been unprepared for it. The more he tried to explain, the more he stammered and the angrier Trowa got.

The problem was that Trowa's background, his experience blending in with so many people, gave him a unique insight into what people really wanted. He was perfect for the position in sales, and if Quatre hadn't owed Nate so much already, he'd have given Trowa the position of sales president without hesitation.

Quatre felt like Trowa took the VP position as some sort of consolation prize, but if he _had_ made Trowa sales president, he probably would have resented it even more, as if he'd slept his way to the top.

Their relationship was never a secret, per se, but they were never blatant about it at work, keeping their private life as private as one could when they were famous Gundam pilots and executives of a multibillion credit, intercolonial conglomerate. Everyone at Winner Enterprises knew that they were friends, at the very least, and that any time one of the former pilots was in the building, they were to be treated with the utmost respect. Which they were, to their faces, but there would never be any stopping of the rumor mill. That particular manmade invention had been around since before the telegraph, and no matter how well treated or well respected an employee was, there would unfortunately always be envy and back stabbing among coworkers, because the grass was always going to be greener. As CEO, there was only so much Quatre could do without treating his employees like school children.

He owed Nate an apology, and perhaps a bottle of that pinot noir he was so fond of.

* * *

><p>He spent most of the next morning with his Chief Financial Officer, questioning a few entries on the balance sheet and later, when Nate joined them, arguing over the sales projections, but by lunch he felt much more accomplished.<p>

The feeling of accomplishment lasted until after lunch, when Vanessa knocked on the door before poking her head in.

Quatre hadn't been expecting it, but he got a brief flash of pity, and he knew even before she approached his desk that it had something to do with Trowa.

"Mr. Winner," she said, holding her fist to her chest. "Something arrived for you today."

There was only one thing that could have arrived that would be small enough to fit in her hand and that would evoke pity in his assistant. He held out his hand and waited. The key was warm and slightly sweaty, showing that she'd worried about giving it to him, but inside he felt nothing but cold.

"Thank you, Vanessa."

"Sir," she said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "If I may..."

He wanted to put his head on his desk, in the protective circle of his own arms. He wanted to clap his hands over his ears like a stubborn child refusing to listen to another side. _No, you may not,_ he wanted to scream at her. He tamped down the pain and gestured for her to continue.

"Sir, you deserve so much better," she blurted out. "You were ever so nice to me when my mother fell ill, and you always remember us on with a birthday bonus, and you always say just the right thing, and I think that it's his loss, and if he couldn't see that, then he doesn't deserve you anyway. Sir."

He held the key by its bow and flicked the blade up and down.

"Thank you, Vanessa, but let me assure you, it was mutual."

Whether she believed him or not, he couldn't tell; after detecting her pity earlier, he'd blocked her feelings.

It didn't matter if she meant it when she smiled at him. He had enough to deal with, as far as his own feelings, when she patted the hand holding the key.

"Doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt," she pointed out.

"No," he whispered to the door as it closed behind her. "I don't suppose it does."

He turned off his computer and reached for his jacket, tailored specifically for him and made from the same bolt of fabric as his dress pants. He slid his arms through the sleeves, smoothed the lapels, and placed Trowa's key in the inside pocket.

It was a chilly night, but he decided not to call ahead for his car. The wait outside would do him good, and the cold air might clear his head.

That was the plan, until he got outside and felt the frigid air on his cheeks. He welcomed the numbness and decided to walk a few blocks before having the car come around to get him. Then he decided to walk a few blocks more, and by then he'd nearly traveled a half-mile, so another half-mile wasn't out of the question.

He arrived home an hour later, ignoring the exclamations of his butler. He reached into his pocket to withdraw the key, shedding his jacket somewhere on the way up the curved staircase leading to the bedroom.

He closed the door behind him, shoved Trowa's key into the lock, and turned it. Despite the concerns of his well-meaning servants, he didn't want to be disturbed tonight.

His fingers reached for the light switch automatically, but the sight of the satin duvet reminded him of the wicked things he and Trowa had done with it and he slapped at the wall to turn the light back off. There was a swing arm wall sconce near the dresser, in brushed copper to match the scroll metal headboard, and he strode toward it purposefully. His fingers shook as he fumbled with the turn switch. When he finally managed to get the lamp on, he turned to stand in front of the three-way mirror in the corner, staring at the reflection of the room behind him.

Trowa hadn't said much of anything when he'd left. Quatre knew he hadn't given him a chance, but he'd sensed Trowa's indecision - not with his space heart, but his real one. He'd seen the pain on Trowa's face and he remembered the sampler one of his sister's had cross-stitched.

_If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it's yours._

Trowa wasn't a thing; he was a person, but the sentiment applied nonetheless. If Trowa needed to leave, he was clearly unhappy, and anything Quatre could do to change his mind would be coercion and would only prolong the inevitable. The fact that Trowa's drawer had been half open, with the bulging knapsack on the bed next to him leaving no doubt of Trowa's intent, was further proof of how determined Trowa had been.

He wasn't sure he believed that Trowa ever intended on saying good-bye. The olive branch he'd tried to extend, allowing them both time to calm down and think things over, had been snapped in half and flung back at him.

_Don't. Don't call me._

Quatre had ignored that the same way he ignored the snide comments at work. He wasn't entirely surprised that Trowa hadn't answered his phone or returned his messages. Maybe Trowa just needed more time. He glanced over at the key sticking out of the lock in the door, and he _knew_. A bitter cold settled into his bones.

He was kidding himself. Trowa had indeed finally answered him, and the message couldn't have been any clearer. Quatre laughed, a dry, mirthless sound. Trowa had been right about one thing. He _was_ too naive. Too naive, too trusting, too optimistic that things would work out if a man just put his mind to it and figured out how to overcome the obstacles in his path. He wasn't sure what hurt more, losing the man he knew in the depths of his soul he was meant to be with, or losing his best friend.

His vision blurred and he snapped his gaze to his own reflection, studying the man he saw there. He took in the sight of the custom tailored suit, the tie chosen because it was the exact color of Trowa's eyes when he was happy. He saw the starched tips of his shirt collar, the gold cuff links Trowa had given him for Christmas. At first he didn't recognize the man in the mirror, and then he realized with a shock that he did. He was staring at his father. A younger, blonder version, but of his father all the same.

His hands were shaking as he reached up to loosen his tie. He'd always dressed the part, always. He was the only pilot who overdressed for battle. Button down shirts, dress pants, and a waistcoat, for heaven's sake. He might as well have worn a school uniform. If clothes made the man, then he was nothing more than a cog in the machine, just like he'd been as a Gundam pilot. His life had been nothing more than fulfillment of someone else's expectations. He might have taken a different path, but his destiny never had been his own.

The only thing he'd chosen himself was his pursuit of Trowa, and he hadn't been subtle about it. He'd followed his heart - both hearts - and despite the pain he felt now, he'd grudgingly admitted that he'd never known such joy.

Was he a better man for it?

The most famous lines of Tennyson's _In Memoriam A.H.H._ flitted through his head. He'd spent time with enough tutors to know that when Tennyson had written "Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all", he'd referred to the death of a beloved friend rather than an ill-fated romance. Trowa hadn't died, but the man Quatre had believed him to be had.

Quatre's tie was finally unknotted, and he yanked it off and threw it aside. He was tired of it. So damn tired.

The man he'd believed Trowa to be hadn't died, because Trowa had never been that man. If admitting that was the first step, then it was time to the truth and move on. It was better to know this now than to go through life blindly as Trowa had so succinctly pointed out.

Another line of Tennyson's poem, the only other verse he knew by heart, came to mind, and he covered his face with his hands.

_Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before._

It didn't matter that it was out of context. It reminded him too much of how he'd felt that day he and Trowa first played together. He'd known then that they were meant to be together. He'd felt it - he'd _seen_ it, and he rarely saw a person's aura - as clearly as one could see his reflection in a still pond.

Quatre lifted his head and began to unbutton his shirt. He despised the man in the mirror, although not quite as much as he despised the man who had walked out on him. With every button that slipped free, his anger flared, fueled by a sense of betrayal and the knowledge that his freedom was an illusion.

After he'd removed every bit of clothing, he stood there, studying himself critically. He ran his fingers down over his ribcage and abdomen and ignored the memory of Trowa's talented fingers playing his body as if he were a flute. There was no six-pack there, but neither was there a trace of fat. His fingers slid over his hips. His frame was narrow, but not feminine. He'd never resemble any of the Maganacs, but with some hard work, there was potential.

His fingers moved further south. The reminder of those long slim fingers trailing over his skin had only aroused him slightly, but he would indulge in the fantasy one last time. He wasn't doing this out of pleasure; he was doing it out of anger, and there was no way he would reach climax this way. He focused on the image of their last time, biting his lip viciously to keep from crying out Trowa's name.

The deed over, Quatre felt none of the warm after glow he was used to. He wiped his sticky fingers on his chest and didn't spare his reflection another glance. On his way to the shower, he gave the pile of clothes he'd shed a malicious kick. It barely moved them, but he felt better all the same.

Twenty minutes later, dressed in nothing but a pair of sweatpants with the cuffs rolled up, Quatre stood in the workout room, an oversized water bottle in one hand and a towel in the other. He set them down on the bench press closest to the dumbbell rack and chose the two at the top. It wouldn't do to push himself too hard right away, and he planned on being here a while.

He lost count of how many hammer curls he'd done before taking a sip of water, but it didn't matter. His muscles felt tired but he wasn't in pain. He put the water on the floor, flung the towel behind his neck, and laid down on the bench to begin a series of flat chest flies.

He'd get there. He just needed to take it one step at a time.

* * *

><p>Rashid found him there in the morning, slumped against the wall and snoring. He cleared his throat, suppressing a smile as his young master's head shot up. Quatre wiped his hand across his mouth and Rashid tactfully glanced down at the papers in his hand lest he feel obligated to comment on the swollen lip or the smear of blood and saliva that indicated Quatre had drooled in his sleep.<p>

"I've arranged everything you asked," Rashid said, tapping the sheaf of papers. "However, there is still the matter of your signature."

Quatre stared at him blearily. "I didn't sign them last night?" Damn, he'd thought he'd finished everything during the break he'd taken between upper body and lower body. Maybe Vanessa had been right about his not getting enough rest.

"No," Rashid replied, pointing to the blank lines on the application forms.

Quatre stumbled to his feet and scribbled his name each time Rashid turned a page, and then looked up. "Have you informed Nate?"

"Of course, Master Quatre." Rashid held out a bottle of water. Beads of condensation trickled down the plastic.

"It's cold," Quatre said in awe, accepting it gratefully and twisting the cap off. "You are a godsend, Rashid." He lifted the bottle to his lips and drank greedily.

"Will there be anything else?"

Quatre held up a finger as he continued to drink until the bottle was completely empty.

"One more thing," he said, gesturing around the room. "Know anyone who would like to serve as my personal trainer?" He grinned up at the Maganac.

"It would be my pleasure, Master Quatre," Rashid said. "But first," he stepped behind Quatre and pushed him toward the door. "Breakfast. I hope you like whey souffles."

They sounded dry and tasteless, and Quatre grimaced at the thought. It didn't matter, though, because if that was what it was going to take, he would damn well learn to like them.

He glanced over his shoulder at the increasing sizes of dumbbells on the rack and straightened his spine.

Fuck that. He was going to learn to _love_ them.


	3. Chapter 3

__So how did you get here under my skin?  
>I swore that I'd never let you back in<br>Should've known better than trying to let you go__

**April 15 AC 206**

"Is he going to be OK?" Catherine asked, wringing her hands anxiously.

Trowa didn't answer right away. He hadn't been able to get a good look at either eye and he was currently busy trying to pry Angus' mouth open without losing any body parts in the process. One of the foremost safety lessons of the circus was that a hurt animal was unpredictable.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I know money is tight, but we're going to have to call in a vet."

Catherine paced back and forth, counting on her fingers. "OK. Typical office visit, eighty credits just to look at him. Add the expense of a house call, probably one-fifty. If we're lucky, we won't need to pay for any diagnostic testing, but medication will be extra..."

It was clear she no longer needed Trowa, at least not until she'd mentally balanced their budget and figured out which expenses to cut in order to have a doctor come take a look at their lion.

Trowa sat down on a stool near the lion's cage and watched as Angus' sides heaved. The animal was older now and while that might have explained the lethargy, the suddenness it had come on was cause for concern, especially when combined with the shallow breathing. Trowa reached through the bars and stroked Angus' mane. It had always been rather coarse, but now that an increasing number of the hairs on the lion's head were gray, they felt more like wire than fur.

One of Angus's paws came up to swipe at his nose as the animal slept, and Trowa slowly withdrew his hand lest the lion accidentally claw him.

"Shit!" Catherine swore, drawing Trowa's attention away from the lion. It was rare to hear his sister swear. "It's a Sunday. Trowa, this is going to cost double what I initially thought!"

She resumed her pacing, tapping her finger in the palm of her hand as if she could somehow conjure up money they didn't have. Trowa was beginning to have a bad feeling about their situation. Worse was the dawning realization that he might have a solution to their problem. He wouldn't say anything to Catherine just yet, though. He couldn't make any promises and truthfully, it would be a very last resort.

A sneeze from Angus caused Trowa to turn his head toward the lion, and he wiped away the mucus with a towel. "I won't let you down, fella," he whispered to the animal. "I promise."

Catherine stood behind him and gave his shoulder a squeeze. "I can't do it, Trowa. The money just isn't there, unless we can pay the vet in installments."

He reached up to cover her hand with his. "We'll do whatever needs to be done." He turned around to look into her face, contorted with worry.

"Let me make a few calls," she said. "Maybe, maybe we can-" she gestured helplessly, gave Trowa's shoulder another squeeze and walked toward her trailer.

He watched her go, wishing he could take care of her the way she'd always taken care of him. When he'd quit working for Quatre, there weren't many options left for him. He could have joined Wufei in working for the Preventers, and he'd certainly been given enough implied invitations to join them, but it wasn't exactly how he wanted to rediscover himself. He could have easily become a mercenary, which would allow him the freedom to accept or decline work, not to mention decent pay, but there was also the risk of working for opposing sides. A merc had no loyalty and he didn't want to begin his life over as someone whose sole purpose in life was dictated by the prevailing currency of the era.

The only other place he really felt he belonged was the circus. He'd thought a home was a place, but it wasn't. The time he'd spent with Quatre had proven that. Home was where family was, and the only family he'd ever known was Catherine, who called him Trowa but remained convinced that he was her long lost infant brother Triton.

Whether they were linked by blood or not, Catherine was his sister, and she'd been overjoyed when he rejoined her. He kept his little studio apartment, although he was rarely around to use it. His home was in one of the trailers and by the time they'd traveled to their third city, it was as if he'd never left. If Catherine wasn't hurling her knives at him, he was performing overhead in some manner. Sometimes he was on the wire, sometimes on trapeze, and sometimes simple ropes hanging down from the ceiling. At twenty-six, he felt younger than he had at nineteen.

At least he had, right up until today.

He got to his feet when the door to Catherine's trailer opened and waited beside Angus for what he knew by her face was bad news.

"The weekend clinic requires full payment for all services when the vet arrives," she choked out.

He'd expected as much. He rubbed the back of his neck and took a deep breath. "I have an idea, but I'm not sure you're going to like it."

She covered her mouth with her hand, and he shook his head. "Nothing illegal, nothing dangerous." _At least not physically._ He reached into his pocket for his phone. "I'll need to make a phone call, first, and I can't promise anything..."

A glimmer of hope shone in her eyes and he knew he would beg if he had to. "After all this time, do you think he would?"

That Catherine was so readily accepting of asking Quatre for help showed just how desperate she was to save Angus. She'd not liked the Sandrock pilot very much the first time she'd met him, blaming him for Trowa's amnesia, his involvement in the war, and anything else even remotely related to Operation Meteor. She'd warmed up to him after the Mariemaia uprising, and had welcomed him to the family when Trowa moved in to the mansion to be with him. Of course she'd automatically blamed Quatre when they broke up, and Trowa hadn't bothered to tell her the reasons behind it. Even if he thought she'd understand, he suspected she still would have made excuses for her little brother.

She was overprotective in her ways, but she still allowed him to soar overhead. Circus life was something Catherine could relate to and the inherent dangers were, in Catherine's world, still safer than the outside world. It was partly why she'd never wanted to pursue any sort of career outside of the multi-colored tents. She was happy here, and so was he, at least most of the time.

"I'll try," he promised, and was grateful when Catherine returned to her trailer, leaving him alone to make the call.

He no longer had Quat's number saved, and he swallowed nervously as he dialed information. If he could reach Quatre's office number, the calls would automatically forward to his cell on the weekend. It had been an annoying, disruptive habit, but one Trowa was thankful for right now.

His mouth was completely dry as the automated voice recited the number, and he pressed "1" to have the call connected. His fingers felt too clumsy to dial it himself.

_You have reached Winner Enterprises. Our office is now closed. If you know your party's extension, you may dial it at any time. To access the company directory, please press or say "1" now._

He pressed the key again and gripped the front of his shirt, hoping he would not vomit now. He'd faced death and self-destruction with courage; he could handle a simple phone call to an old friend. Even if they weren't exactly friends anymore, and even if they'd once been much more.

_Connecting to...Nathan Burns. If this is correct, press 1. If not, press 2._

Nate Burns. His old boss. He must have remembered the wrong extension. When prompted, he pressed the appropriate key to search by voice prompt.

_I'm sorry. I do not understand. Are you trying to reach Kate Warner? To connect to Kate Warner, press 1. If not, press 2._

After three more unsuccessful attempts, he gave up and let the call go through to Nate's extension.

_This is Nate Burns. I'm either out of the office or another line. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you._

Trowa gripped the phone hard. "Nate, this is Trowa Barton. I'm sorry I left you in a bind a while back, but I need to reach Quatre. I know you don't owe me anything, but it's urgent. If you're able to pass this message on to him, I'd appreciate it."

He disconnected the call and walked back to Angus' cage. He was still breathing, but it was eating him up.

Heero. He'd call Heero. If Heero didn't have the money, he could probably get it from Relena.

The phone rang a few times, and Trowa half expected to get Heero's voice mail, but instead he heard something like a chair or a table being dragged across a floor, and a voice in the distance that sounded like it might be Heero. A second voice, this one much closer to the phone, yelled back "Cool your jets, I got it!" There was a clatter, as if the phone had been dropped. Trowa's grip on the phone tightened as he waited anxiously.

"Heero Yuy's phone. Still there?"

"Duo?"

"The one and only. Who's this, Trowa?"

"Yeah. Listen, is Heero there?"

"Oh, he's here..." Duo pulled the phone away from his mouth. "The other side, Heero. No, not that side. Heero, _not that side_ The other one. The _other_ other - yes, there!" There was more noise in the background, and then Duo was back on the phone. "Sorry, Tro. Is there anything I can help you with, or do you want Heero to call you back when he's done?"

He was almost desperate enough to ask Duo, but he didn't know him nearly as well. "Thanks, Duo, but can you have him call me back as soon as he can?"

"Yeah, sure, no problem. The number you're calling from, right?"

"Yes. Please."

He was just about to end the call when Duo asked, "Trowa, everything OK?"

"Sure," Trowa said, his voice rough with emotion. "What could possibly be wrong?"

"OK. He'll call you back in about five minutes. Just hang in there in the meantime."

Trowa ended the phone call before Duo could say anything more. He reached through the bars to stroke Angus' head again. "I'm trying," he said. "I swear, I'm trying."

He pulled his hand back out and leaned his head against the bars. He knew Angus wasn't going to live forever, but he didn't want it to end this way.

The ringing of his phone made him jump, and he couldn't answer it fast enough.

"Heero, thanks for getting back to me."

"Heero? Trowa, this is Nate Burns. You left me a message about ten minutes ago."

The queasiness was back. "I'm sorry. I just really need to get in touch with Quatre."

"I wish I could help you, Trowa, but Quatre resigned as CEO about six years ago."

Trowa wanted to howl in frustration. "Do you know where he is now?"

"Sorry, Trowa. All he told me was he'd left to 'pursue other interests'. I know what that usually means, but when it's the head honcho, all it tells me is that if Quatre wanted me to know, he would have told me."

"OK Nate. Thanks for getting back to me. You didn't have to."

"No, I didn't, but you said it was urgent. Just one word of advice, son."

Trowa didn't have time for this, but he couldn't burn any bridges. If Heero couldn't help him, he might very well be groveling back to Nate Burns.

"Next time you leave an urgent message and you want someone to call you back, you might want to leave your phone number. It's lucky for you our voice mail records the incoming number with the message."

"I'll try to remember that next time."

"Trowa," Burns said slowly. "It sounds like you don't have a lot of time to listen to me, but if it's as bad as it sounds, I want you call me back if you need anything."

"Thanks, Nate, sure. I'll do that."

"Good luck, son."

It should have made him breathe easier, knowing that Nate seemed willing to help, but how could he ask the man he'd screwed over professionally for a loan, especially for an aging circus lion?

The next time his phone rang, it was Heero, and he was so relieved when Heero called over his shoulder to Duo to wire the money immediately, he dropped to his knees.

"Catherine!" he shouted. "Make the call!"

He bent over, fighting the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. He hoped his sister heard him and was calling the emergency animal clinic right this second, because he felt very close to passing out.

* * *

><p>"Trowa, you should try to eat something," Catherine urged, bringing him a cup of the same damn soup she always made. "The answering service said the doctor was at least half an hour away when they called him."<p>

That had been twenty minutes ago. There was always the chance the man would arrive sooner rather than later, and Trowa wanted to be here watching for him.

Catherine patted him on the back, set the cup down on a crate next to him, and went back to her trailer where she could do whatever it was she did at a time like this. Maybe it was the same thing she'd done when he'd spent his time nursing Heero back from the brink of death.

Heero hadn't owed him for that, but if he had, the debt was more than paid after this.

Trowa wasn't much of a nail biter, but he began to gnaw on his thumbnail as he kept glancing at his phone. The digits hadn't changed since the last time he'd looked at it. How was it possible that sixty seconds could last so fucking long?

He cast another worried glance at Angus. The animal hadn't stirred since that sneeze earlier. Rationally, that hadn't been all that long ago, but it felt like an eternity, and Trowa just knew that there was something seriously wrong with the lion.

"Come on," he urged, bouncing his leg up and down. "Come on."

"Trowa!" Catherine poked her head out the trailer window. "Is that him?"

Trowa jumped up and scanned the road. He didn't see it at first, but then he did, the white ambulance coming around the bend. Because they were for animal emergencies, the vehicles weren't fitted with a siren, but now that the vet had gotten this far, it no longer mattered.

He scratched one of the lion's ears. "Hang on, Angus, help is on the way."

He waved his hands frantically as the ambulance approached to show the doctor where to bring the vehicle to a stop. He bounced on his heels while the doctor reached over for his medical bag, and he heard the crackle of the radio on the dashboard.

"Doctor, what is your E.T.A.?"

"Zero," the vet replied. "I'm here."

All the blood drained from Trowa's face. He knew that voice, and knew exactly what "pursuing other interests" meant. He didn't need to see the white lab coat or the photo badge that identified him, in big block print, as Q R WINNER DVM.

From the way Quatre froze in his tracks as he came around the ambulance, it seemed that their reunion had caught him by surprise, too.

The past few years melted away and he could hardly breathe. Quatre looked much the same, except his hair was shorter and lighter in color and beneath the white coat he wore a T-shirt and jeans rather than a dress shirt and slacks. It could have been minutes or merely a heartbeat before reality came crashing back and Trowa gestured toward Angus frantically.

"Please, Quat," he begged. "Take a look at him. He's been lethargic all morning, he's vomited once already, and I think he's having trouble breathing."

Quatre put his stethoscope in his ears and moved toward the lion's cage. Trowa watched as Quatre's hands, steady as ever, ran over the lion's body before he pressed the chestpiece in the area where Trowa presumed the animal's lungs were located. He chewed on his lip when Quatre frowned, and he moved forward when it looked like Quatre was trying to get his hand beneath the lion's prone body.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Can you help me roll him over?"

Trowa nodded. It wasn't just the lion's weight, all three hundred thirty pounds of it, it was angle, not to mention there was always the danger Angus would misinterpret their actions and turn on them. Quatre slipped a muzzle over the lion's face and slid his arms beneath Angus's upper body, leaving Trowa to handle his hindquarters.

"On three."

Between the two of them, they managed, and the lack of response from Angus had Trowa biting his nail again. Quatre reached up and grabbed his wrist, yanking Trowa's hand away from his face.

"If this is pathological, there's danger of cross contamination." He scowled at Trowa.

Trowa wiped his thumb on his jeans. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking."

Quatre listened to the animal's lungs again, and examined his eyes and ears. The animal stirred, opened his mouth to yawn, and sneezed again. Quatre slapped a surgical mask over his face with the hand not covered in mucus.

"Who else has come into contact with this animal?" he asked as he searched through his bag with one hand.

"Directly or indirectly?"

"Either." Quatre must have found what he was looking for. The object he removed from the bag looked a little like a piercing gun, and it looked like he was obtaining a sample of blood from Angus' ear.

"Mostly me. Catherine came by to bring me some soup once."

Quatre looked at the device he'd used on Angus, swore under his breath, and wiped his hands off with a cloth he pulled from his coat pocket.

"Is there a sink in there?" he gestured to the trailer.

"Yeah. Why?"

Quatre didn't answer the question; he merely picked up his bag and walked toward the trailer. "Come with me."

He pulled out his cell phone, and spoke rapidly into it. At the word "quarantine", Trowa jerked his head up, and he felt sick to his stomach when Quatre stopped about ten feet from the trailer and yelled through the window.

"Catherine! Do not poke your head out of this trailer until I tell you. Take only what you absolutely need. When you come out, I want you to walk past my ambulance, continue down the road about twenty feet, and wait there."

Trowa had expected Catherine to ask a million questions, but it appeared that for now, she was taking this much better than he was.

"Tell me when!" she shouted back.

Quatre handed a second mask to Trowa and gestured for him to cover his mouth. When they were on the other side of the trailer, he bellowed loudly, "Go, now!"

The door of the trailer banged open, but he couldn't see his sister until she had reached the spot where Quatre told her to wait. She hadn't taken a single thing with her from the trailer.

"Stay there," Quat ordered. "Whatever you do, do not return to your trailer. I don't care if your phone, your purse, or your favorite set of knives is in there!"

"OK," she called back. She sounded like she was going to cry, but she was trying to be brave. His big sister, needing to make everything OK even when it was impossible.

The vet led Trowa back around the trailer and they went inside. Trowa sat down on the bed that ran along the back wall of the trailer. He glanced at the object Quat still had clutched in one hand.

"Quat, what is wrong with Angus?"

"I could be wrong," Quatre said, placing the tester on the table at his elbow. The grim expression on his face told Trowa the likelihood of that. "But it looks like pneumonic plague."

Trowa felt dizzy. Anything with the word plague in it was usually fatal. Then Quatre's phone call, and his instructions to Catherine, took on new meaning.

"This plague," he said shakily. "It can spread across species."

"Yes, usually by respiratory droplets."

"In other words, snot." Trowa ran his fingers through his hair. "Catherine?"

"You and I have almost definitely been exposed, but it's impossible to for me to tell if Catherine has. The Center for Disease Control will come prepared for all of us, but they'll keep her separate, just in case, at least until they're able to test for signs of the infection."

Trowa closed his eyes. There was at least a good chance for Catherine. Possibly a chance for him and Quat, too, assuming early treatment actually gave them one. His own prognosis aside, if anything happened to him, he couldn't bear the thought of leaving Catherine alone. She'd lost him twice already.

"And Angus?"

"Too soon to say." Quatre's voice came at his elbow. In this cramped space, he'd not realized the the other man had moved closer.

Trowa opened his eyes. Quatre was leaning closer, a digital thermometer in hand.

"I don't feel feverish."

"Baseline," Quatre said briskly, jotting down a number when the thermometer beeped. He repeated the procedure on himself, and then sat down on the bench across from Trowa. "Any headaches, nausea?"

Trowa laughed weakly. He'd felt that way for most of the past hour. Maybe it had been more than just nerves and guilt. "Yeah. Both."

Quatre rubbed his index finger behind his right ear, a nervous habit that Trowa found suddenly endearing.

"So all we can do now is wait," Trowa said, desperate to fill the silence.

"All we can do is wait," Quatre confirmed, and that was the last thing he said to Trowa before the infectious disease team arrived.


	4. Chapter 4

____You never know what you want_  
><em>And you never say what you mean<em>  
><em>But I start to go insane<em>  
><em>Every time that you look at me<em>  
><em>__

* * *

><p><strong>June AC 198<strong>

_It had been a bad day for Trowa at the office. It wasn't anything he'd heard as the head of the company, but when Trowa got home, later than Quatre for a change, he could feel the waves of anger._

_"Want to talk about it?"_

_Trowa threw his jacket on top of the hamper and yanked at his tie._

_"I'm sure you've already heard all about it."_

_Quatre shook his head. "I don't think so."_

_"Of course not," Trowa retorted, flinging his tie across the room. "You know everything, but you know nothing."_

_"Is it about work?"_

_Trowa's shirt went in the same direction as the tie. "Of course it's about work! What else has there been all day _except_ work?"_

_Quatre rubbed at the space behind one ear. Trowa was definitely furious, and growing angrier by the second. He got the distinct feeling that Trowa's rage was directed at him, and he strongly believed that a couple should never go to bed angry. He watched as one of Trowa's shoes flew across the room, striking the wall next to the three-way mirror. "Was it something I did?"_

_"No, and please don't try to fix it."_

_"I can't help it, Trowa. If there's a problem with my staff, I should know about it."_

_"That's Nate's job, not yours. There's a reason I don't work for you directly. Not," Trowa spat out as the second shoe just barely missed striking the mirror, "that it matters to anyone else. Apparently I can do no wrong."_

_Quatre rolled onto his side and propped his head in his hand. If Trowa was angry with him, it was probably because someone else had dragged out the same tired accusation about sleeping with the boss, or someone made a mistake and deflected blame by pointing the finger at Trowa. Beneath Trowa's anger, Quatre detected unhappiness, something he'd not felt before. "I'm not sure I understand the problem."_

_What he meant was that he didn't know why Trowa was so unhappy, and that he wanted Trowa to share that with him. He never said anything sarcastically. Words had to retain their meaning in order for communication to work. Trowa didn't seem to understand that when he was upset._

_"Of course not. You'd be in charge no matter what."_

_"I know. That's why I want to understand what's wrong."_

_"I'm just pissed off because Ben in accounting thinks it's OK to tell everyone I take it up the ass to get ahead."_

_"I know it's easier for me, but you know that Ben is wrong."_

_Trowa's belt landed on top of the jacket, then slid off the hamper to land on the floor._

_"It doesn't matter what I know."_

_"But it does!" Quatre cried out. "You're good at your job. Nate thinks so, too, and he would know."_

_Trowa sat down on the edge of the bed with his pants unfastened. The anger was fading, and Quatre breathed a little easier. He moved behind Trowa and kissed the side of his neck. "Feel better?"_

_Trowa reached up and clasped Quatre's hand. "A little." He felt Quatre's tongue in his ear and he felt a flicker of desire in his belly. "A lot."_

_Quatre's lips moved to Trowa's earlobe and he began to nibble on it. The flicker was growing warmer, and Trowa reached up to stroke the side of Quatre's neck. Quatre shivered and let go of Trowa's ear, and Trowa pressed the advantage, dipping his tongue into the hollow of Quat's collarbone._

_"Quat," he murmured._

_With the heat of anger gone, all that remained was a comforting warmth. Coupled with Trowa's ability to coax him to readiness, Quatre often reached his climax earlier than he'd like. Fortunately for him, Trowa hadn't yet been disgusted by his lack of control._

_Trowa's mouth was warm, his hands were warm, and other more pleasurable parts were especially warm._

_There was a sliver of ice, sharp and fleeting like a paper cut, and Quatre sat up suddenly, breaking the contact with Trowa's lips._

_He touched Trowa's cheek, stroking it with the back of his fingers. "You're sad."_

_Trowa knocked his hand away. "I'm what?"_

_"Sad. I thought you were just angry, but there's more to it than that."_

_"You just can't leave it alone, can you?" Trowa snapped at him. "I was working on being pretty happy. I mean, what the fuck, Quat, are you a girl or something?"_

_Quatre wrapped his arms around himself as the icy feeling grew. "I can't help it. I just know."_

_"You just know?"_

_"Not always, but sometimes."_

_"You. Wait. You know, like literally know?"_

_Quatre nodded mutely._

_"You know." Trowa was off the bed. "Explain to me what that means."_

_"Sometimes I can feel what you're feeling. What everyone is feeling, really, but when it's just the two of us, then you." He struggled to explain the rest, the way it was hard to figure out where his feelings ended and another person's began, or how sometimes he felt it more strongly than others, but he didn't get the chance._

_"What the hell, Quat. If you know, then what the fuck do you make me explain everything to you for?"_

_Quatre felt a sharp pain in his chest, but he was pretty sure it was his own this time. "Trowa…"_

_Trowa waved a hand at him. "It's not that. It's just…my feelings are private!" He realized how that sounded and took a deep breath. "Sorry. It's a lot to take in, that's all."_

_He sat down on the edge of the bed and flopped backwards to stare at the ceiling. He lay that way for a while, and finally reached one hand overhead. Quatre grasped it and squeezed._

_"I can't read your mind, Trowa It's not like that. And…it's always been strongest when I'm with you."_

_Trowa rubbed his thumb over Quatre's knuckles. "Are you trying to tell me I'm special?"_

_"You are," Quatre replied._ I just wish you'd believe it.

* * *

><p><strong>April 15 AC 206<strong>

The ride to the quarantine station had seemed interminable, and Quatre had spent the time doing breathing exercises to tamp down the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He'd needed to learn some kind of control over it when he'd completed medical school, for the fear of his patients as well as their owners had been too much for him at first. He'd learned to focus it, and it worked to his advantage, because he knew how to approach a wounded or sick animal. Some were eager for relief, some still playful despite their injuries, and others filled with panic. His ability to handle animals no other vet could approach had quickly earned him a reputation for one of the best, and he took his job very seriously.

Leaving Winner Enterprises to go to college had, at first, been the start of a quest. He wanted to start fresh, without expectations. He'd avoided any business or managerial courses – serving as CEO taught him more than any textbook ever would – and settled on a varied schedule that included science, art, and mathematics. That's when he discovered a keen interest in microbiology. The following semester included courses in pathology and hematology, and after that he was firmly pre-med. He'd just finished his first year of medical school when Bessa, a cat belonging to one of Abdul's sisters, got hit by a car. Two of the Maganacs suffered deep scratches on their arms before Yasmin started shrieking that they were hurting poor Bess Bess. She'd looked up at Quatre, waiting quite deliberately until one big fat tear rolled down her cheek, and asked him to help.

Bessa hissed at him once but allowed him to set her broken leg. The look on Yasmin's face as she cuddled Bessa, cast and all, left no question what he was meant to do with his life.

The hardest thing had been accepting that despite all the training, compassion, or empathy, there were patients that he couldn't save. He bore it the best he could; learning to control the emotional onslaught from others helped him deal with his own.

The breathing exercises usually helped, at least a little, but today he felt like a bandage had been torn off his soul. The thought of being quarantined with Trowa was too much to contemplate, and he still had enough concern for his feline patient that he worried about the animal's prognosis as well.

It was as he'd told Trowa, though. All they could do now was wait.

* * *

><p>"Dr. Winner," one of the men in haz mat suits greeted him as the door to the trailer opened. "This way. Quickly."<p>

Quatre recognized the voice, muffled as it was. "Dr. Hopkins," he acknowledged. He followed Hopkins out of the trailer, knowing that time was critical, but he still had to ask. "Where's Brian?"

"With Ms. Bloom."

One of the other epidemiologists was walking ahead of them, leading Trowa to the medi-van, and Quatre had to make one last attempt.

"Remind him what I said, Hopkins. Money is no object."

"I'll tell him."

They'd barely taken their seats on the vinyl covered bench that ran along half of the interior when the doors shut behind them, and the van began to move. He knew when they'd reached the main road because that's when the sirens began blaring.

"Catherine. What about Catherine?" Trowa asked, getting to his feet.

Quatre waved for him to sit back down. "Less chance of exposure. Until they're sure, they're not going to keep her breathing the same air as the two of us."

Trowa nodded, but he didn't look convinced. Quatre recognized the signs of shock and felt guilty for the relief that swamped him. This was something he could handle.

"Sit down," Quatre ordered. "We're not going anywhere for a while."

His medical bag was still on the circus grounds, but there were supply cabinets across from them and he knew that, although there was nothing he could do, the illusion might be soothing for Trowa. He located a tongue depressor, a penlight, and a stethoscope and squatted down in front of Trowa.

"Keep your head still, and follow my light with your eyes," he said, moving it from left to right. He could feel Trowa's breath against his face and ignored the faint memories that were beginning to stir. He ran through the most basic of tests, just to give Trowa something to focus on, and by the time he'd finished, Trowa's breathing sounded back to normal. He double-checked with the stethoscope just to be sure.

"No change to your baseline," Quatre pronounced, folding up the stethoscope and placing it back in the drawer. He sat down next to Trowa and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes to avoid any further conversation. If Trowa thought he was sleeping or exhausted, he'd leave him alone, at least until they reached their destination. To his surprise, the motion of the medi-van on the road really was making him drowsy, and he might have dozed off it the van hadn't rolled to a stop when it did.

The precautions that were taken reminded him of radiation exposure. They were ordered to strip and then walk through a shower that resembled a car wash. Once they were clean and in the decontamination room, they found white hospital scrubs (no shirt, socks, or underwear) and booties.

Their last stop was the room they would call home for the next week or two. Two beds, two over bed tables, and a television located in a recess in the wall and covered by bullet proof Plexiglas.

"All the comforts of home," he murmured. He hadn't intended the comment for Trowa's ears, but a forced chuckle told him he'd been heard anyway.

Trowa gestured to both beds. "Dibs?"

Quatre shook his head. "Be my guest."

Fortunately there wasn't time for awkward silences, for the door slid open and a medical utility car entered the room, pushed by a physician's assistant wearing a full face mask.

"Him first," Quatre said. He couldn't help supervising the procedure, from sterilization to insertion to the verification of drug allergies. He would have done it no matter who was in the room with him; he couldn't help it. Fortunately the PA was too busy doing her job properly to worry about being judged by a veterinarian.

It was Quatre's turn next, and he almost wished for something to go wrong, anything to keep the young woman from leaving him alone in the room with Trowa.

"Have either of you eaten?" she asked as she closed and locked the top of the sharps container.

"Soup," Trowa said. "I had soup earlier."

"Dr. Winner?"

Quatre shook his head. "I'm fine, thanks."

It wasn't until after she was gone that he realized if he'd requested something, then someone would definitely have to come back.

This was ridiculous, he chided himself. He couldn't have expected to avoid Trowa forever, even if he'd done so successfully over the past eight years. He hadn't even considered the possibility when he'd received the call to treat a sick lion, having made numerous house calls in the past to zoos and circuses alike.

He hoped Brian was doing all he could. The only chance Angus had of survival was prompt treatment, and from what he'd seen and what Catherine had told the answering service, the lion was most likely infected 12 to 24 hours earlier.

Immediate problems aside, there was still the question of how the animal had contracted the plague in the first place. He wouldn't actively be involved with the investigation – that was for the epidemiologists – but he could at least satisfy his own curiosity before the real interrogation began.

"The circus animals," he began. "Did you obtain any new ones recently?"

"No," Trowa shook his head. "They've all been part of the troupe for at least six years, most of them longer."

"Any strays come by?"

Another shake of the head. "They're too afraid of the big cats, and Catherine wouldn't stand for any chance of rumors that someone had seen a rabid raccoon. Bad for business; scares off the locals."

"Anyone new, anyone take a vacation abroad or off planet?"

"No. Nothing like that."

"What about exotic foods?"

"All the time. The grosser, the better. You think that's why Angus got sick?"

"I don't know. Possibly. There are a lot of variables, but they'll check into it."

He'd run out of things to say, and they lapsed into awkward silence, each absorbed with his own thoughts.

* * *

><p><strong>August AC 198<strong>

_He was hot, he was irritable, and during the last half of the meeting, he'd felt like banging his head against the wall. His headache couldn't possibly be any worse if he had._

_Everyone had been unreasonable. Sales wanted to start promoting the product by the end of the quarter. Research balked, citing several improvements they wanted to make to the design. Manufacturing wanted new equipment as well as approved overtime, and that was just for the prototypes. Finance and accounting wanted to slash as much as possible to maximize profit, and the independent consultants responsible for product safety had a brought up a whole slew of new concerns. Finance jumped all over that, accusing them of padding their payroll budget. Manufacturing pointed out that the old equipment wasn't capable of meeting a tolerance as tight as the design provided by Research._

_Around and around they went, until Quatre finally slammed his hand on the table._

_"Enough!"_

_A hush fell across the room at the unexpected outburst, from their mild mannered CEO of all people._

_He rubbed behind his ear and took a deep breath. "If we pull out now, we lose what we've invested. However, if there are any real safety concerns, we need to determine whether it's more cost effective to pursue their elimination, or-"_

_"Just like a Gundam pilot to treat human life like a ledger entry," sneered one of the consultants._

_Someone in the room gasped, and Quatre felt a cold rage seep into his skin._

_This wasn't the first time he'd been accused of devaluing human beings. He could scarcely blame anyone after what he'd done to that colony, even if he hadn't completely been himself, but not everyone knew all the facts surrounding the incident. It was something he had to live with, every day of his life. It was why he'd forced himself to the helm of Winner Enterprises. If his grief at his father's death had weakened him so much that he allowed Zero to influence him, to cause so much death and destruction, then he in turn had to use that power to rebuild, to improve life for those who suffered so much. That there was profit to be made from his efforts was a necessary evil, for without it, he couldn't continue his work._

_Low cost energy sources suitable for use on the colonies had been a pet project from the beginning, so that no one would suffer from temperature extremes where the colony's environmental controls were least effective. On the heels of that were devices of convenience, to move colonials from a life of basic survival to a life with simple burdens lessened, allowing for a bit of enjoyment._

_He didn't excuse his actions and didn't expect anyone else to, but never had anyone dared bring it up in the hallowed walls of Winner Enterprises._

_"As I was saying," he said through gritted teeth, "we need to determine if it is more cost effective to eliminate these safety concerns, or if we should completely scrap the project and cut our losses now. I would never condone a cost-benefit analysis where loss of life or limb was part of the equation."_

_There was a murmur of approval around the table, although it could have been simply because he was Quatre Raberba Winner and could have nothing to do with whether anything he said had any merit. What made him angriest, however, was that the product might not pose any threats beyond those that had already been identified and corrected, or there could be genuine problems that hadn't been foreseen in the initial design stages. The safety consultants might be doing their job, or they might want to bleed Winner Enterprises dry for their own personal gain._

_There was something not quite honest about someone in the room, but he couldn't pinpoint the source. He'd tried in the past and it had made him lightheaded, giving rise to rumors of a completely different sort._

_Quatre turned toward the consultants, refusing to single out his accuser. "I want a list of all safety concerns that have not been previously submitted, along with any proposed solutions you may have, and I want this on my desk by the close of business tomorrow."_

_He had nothing more to say, and for the first time ever, he was the first one out of the room. On the way to his office, he realized he'd failed to adjourn the meeting. The hell with it. They were all smart, well-educated men and women. They'd figure it out._

_His mood had not improved by the time he got home, nor had his headache. Trowa was visibly annoyed with him for being late. Quatre didn't need his space heart to determine that; it was evident in the tight lips and terse greeting. They ate their meal in silence, which wasn't all that unusual. The difference this time was that the silence was palpable, uncomfortable, and he felt resentment well up in him._

_"I didn't come home late just to piss you off," he commented as he reached over for the salt shaker._

_"I didn't flatter myself thinking you had," Trowa replied. His hands handled cutlery the way he handled an instrument; delicately, precisely._

_Quatre watched his boyfriend cut a small sliver of dolmah and bring it to his mouth. He shouldn't think of the way someone ate as elegant, but there was no other word for it. Usually he found it fascinating, a facet of Trowa's personality that reflected just how self-contained he was around others. Sometimes Quatre congratulated himself on being the person who could see this side of Trowa as well as the passionate side, whether it was expressed though music or physical touch._

_Tonight he found it irksome._

_"Of course not. That would mean actually sparing a thought for someone besides yourself." He winced as the words flew out of his mouth, but ill-placed pride kept him from apologizing._

_Trowa set his fork down on the side of his plate and looked at him coolly. "I often think of Catherine," he said, and Quatre knew the slight was deliberate._

_Just because he'd deserved it didn't make it any easier to swallow. There was no reason for him to take his frustration out on Trowa, who hadn't even been involved in the project. He knew he was being irrational, but he was just so damn tired of being the nice guy all the time._

_"I'm sure you two will be very happy together," he shot back, pushing himself away from the table._

_"Trying to tell me something?" Trowa asked. His voice was deceptively calm._

_"Maybe I am." Quatre crossed his arms over his chest petulantly._

_"It was your idea that I move in with you in the first place, you may recall."_

_"I don't remember asking you."_

_He'd finally cracked that calm veneer; Trowa shoved his plate away and got to his feet._

_"You want to go there, Quat?"_

_Quatre lifted his chin in the air. "We're already there."_

_"Fine," Trowa yelled. He came around the table and got in Quatre's face, pointing his finger. "First of all,_ this," _he said, gesturing between them, "was more your idea than mine. I had plans after the war that didn't include you."_

_Quatre fought the urge to flinch. It was hard to say how much was truth and how much was Trowa merely retaliating because he was hurt. He couldn't stop himself, though, from continuing the fight._

_"How good of you to take pity upon me, then."_

_"How good of me? Please. Only one of us can be the martyr in this relationship, and it's clearly you, Saint Quatre, who sacrifices all and provides for the common folk. I would bow down and show my gratitude if I actually gave a rat's ass."_

_His face was inches from Quatre's now, and a small spray of spit hit his cheek. He reached forward with both hands and shoved as hard as he could._

_"Hardly a saint. I'm obviously keeping you here, as you can tell by the chains and barred windows."_

_"Not all prisons have walls."_

_It was too much. He hadn't wanted to fight, not truly, but he'd started it and he had to finish it, even though he couldn't understand why._

_"Then leave. That's right," he said at Trowa's look of surprise. "Get the fuck out. I won't have you staying here because you feel sorry for me."_

_That last part was the only bit of truth that had come out of this argument, and pain lanced through his chest. He grabbed at the front of his shirt, as if that might help, and sank to his knees._

_"Quat!" Trowa dropped to his knees as well and began unbuttoning Quatre's shirt._

_"Fine," Quatre croaked. "Fine. It's not…physical."_

_Trowa's eyebrows furrowed with concern. "What are we doing, Quat?" He rested his head on Quatre's shoulder. "This isn't us."_

_Quatre awkwardly patted him on the back. For some reason, he still wasn't ready to put it behind him. "Maybe it is."_

_"The fuck it is," Trowa said fiercely. Before Quatre could open his mouth to argue further, Trowa's lips were covering his. He didn't even make a token show of resistance. The feel of Trowa's tongue against his own had heat of a completely different nature coursing through his blood._

_Fifteen minutes later, they lay on the dining room floor. Both of them were still fully clothed save for their shirts, untucked and only half-fastened, and there were telltale stains in the front of their pants. Trowa was playing with Quatre's right ear, and for the life of him, Quatre couldn't remember why he'd been so pissed in the first place._

* * *

><p><strong>April 15 AC 206<strong>

"Quatre."

Trowa's voice pulled him back to the present, and he looked up. "I'm sorry. I was just…"

"I know. Me too."

Did he know? He couldn't possibly, Quatre decided, although he'd been wrong before.

"Look," Trowa said, moving to sit on the edge of the bed next to him. "I just wanted to say-"

Quatre got up suddenly, banging his knee on the bare metal bedframe. "Hold that thought," he said. "I just have to pee, really bad!"

_Shit._ As excuses went, it was among the most pathetic, but he just wasn't capable of handling it all right now, not when Trowa was involved.

It took an embarrassing amount of time to get into the small bathroom with his IV and especially to close the door behind him, but he managed. For good measure, he reached into the shower stall and turned the tap handle. If Trowa hadn't figured out he needed privacy by his outburst, he'd know it now.

The realization that what he was doing now was exactly what he'd mentally accused Trowa of eight years ago left a bitter taste in his mouth. He sat down on the toilet and rubbed at his face before his fingers crept unerringly to his right ear.

_Deep breaths. In. Relax. Exhale. Just keep breathing._

His heart hurt, but worse than that, he had no idea why.


	5. Chapter 5

__You only hear half of what I say  
>And you're always showing up too late<br>And I know that I should say good-bye  
>But it's no use<em>_

**April 15 AC 206**

Trowa sat on the bed and stared at the wall across the room. Everything was either white or gray. Easy to bleach and disinfect, he supposed. He scratched at the outside edge of the bandage on his arm, where the cannula was taped into place. He was trying to leave it alone, but the itch was driving him crazy, and there was nothing to take his mind off it.

Actually, the problem was more that there was too much on his mind, and no one to share it with.

Quatre was in the bathroom trying to take a shower, a long one from the sounds of it. He'd barely said two words to Trowa that weren't directly related to their quarantine. Both of them were on an intravenous cocktail of antibiotics for the next seven days to aggressively treat the infection. By then, if they weren't dead, chances were good that they'd make a full recovery.

There was still no news about whether Catherine had been infected, but Trowa hoped the fact that she wasn't in here with them was a good sign.

He got up to pace the room, but after the third time the wheels on the IV stand got stuck and threatened to tip the whole thing over, he was forced to return to the bed, the only place he could sit comfortably without tangling the IV line on anything.

Quatre had done him a favor, actually. He'd been floored to see him again, and he was vulnerable, desperate over Angus's condition and now in a near panic over both the lion and his sister. He hadn't even known what to say to Quatre, but he knew that he needed to say something, to bridge the gap between them, to at least become comfortable enough so that –

But that was the thing. So that, what?

After the first few months living alone, doing odd jobs here and there, he'd felt a little better about himself. Work was sporadic, but through his own efforts. He refused several invitations to join the Preventers, because really. He'd had enough of finding work through connections when he worked for Winner Enterprises. The same went for any suggestions Heero had made about employment opportunities, because you had to admit that it was hard to think of any place where Heero wouldn't have some pull, if he so chose.

When the circus had come back into town, he'd gone every night, having supper with Catherine after the show until the last performance, when she voiced what he'd both hoped for and dreaded.

"Come with me," she said, and he'd done exactly that.

* * *

><p><strong>December 31 AC 199<strong>

"Here you are," Catherine announced as she found him seated on a crate by the lion's cage. She handed him a fluted glass filled with a sparkling beverage. He accepted it with raised eyebrows.

"It's soda," she said, bumping with her hip as she sat next to him, forcing him to scoot closer to the lion. She rolled her own glass between her palms and looked up at the night sky. "It's beautiful out here."

"Not much to see," he gestured toward the starless sky with his free hand.

"That's what makes it so beautiful. The complete and utter nothingness, waiting to be filled with sparks."

He was quiet, allowing her the romantic notion. He couldn't agree with her, for the bleak darkness still dragged him back to that terrible place, when he'd drifted in space alone and confused. His memories of it weren't crystal clear, but he could still _feel _what it was like. The nightmares came much less frequently, but there were still times when he awoke in a cold sweat, clawing at the bed sheets and gasping for air. Catherine didn't know what he'd endured during that time and he had no plans on sharing it with her. Fortunately, she was in a dreamy sort of mood and she took his lack of response as cynicism rather than fear.

"What resolutions did you make for the coming year?"

Catherine never asked _if_ he was making them; she rarely asked yes/no questions because they were too easily evaded. It was part and parcel of spending time with fortunetellers. Their true source of knowledge didn't come from a crystal ball or tea leaves; it came from seemingly idle conversation while people waited in line. It was amazing how readily people accepted the person next to them as being just like themselves and not connected in any way with the circus. A keen memory was just as necessary, but then people were generally the same regardless of where they traveled. What a fortuneteller lacked factually could be concealed with hints that were close enough to the truth. If Catherine ever decided to pack up her knives, she'd do well as Madame Bloom.

"I'm going to work on finding my sister a boyfriend," he said. The elbow to his ribs was not a surprise.

"Oh, you," she huffed in mock anger. "We were just very good friends, you know."

They'd been very good friends, all right. Catherine had briefly dated the Giovanni, the circus strongman, if by "briefly" one meant nine months. Because of her position, she'd refused to allow it to go much further than that, but Trowa suspected she'd sneaked into her trailer after dark with smeared lipstick and a crooked bustier more than once.

He hadn't meant to pry, but for some reason she took his teasing tonight as genuine curiosity.

"If things were different," she confessed. "He's very handsome, and skilled with his hands – I mean around the circus, helping out, those sorts of things," she added hastily. "And not, you know."

If he didn't know before, he knew now, but he didn't want to think about how skilled Giovanni's hands really were. They could still break him in two, and Catherine was his _sister_. He no more wanted details about her sex life than he wanted to share the details of his own with her.

"Sometimes, though," she continued, more softly, "I can't help but wonder."

It sounded as though she might elaborate on what she wondered, but then they heard the whistle of a bottle rocket as it shot into the air to their left, signaling the end of 199.

"Ten, nine, eight…" They counted down together, all the way to one, and when the fireworks began, she gave him a one armed hug and he kissed the top of her head before they toasted the new year and drank their soda.

He'd thought their conversation over, but Catherine had other ideas, not the least of which was turnabout being fair play.

"I should threaten you with a similar resolution," she said, "but you don't need me for that."

"Even if I was interested in Giovanni, I have it on good authority that he's straight."

She pinched him in the side, and he jerked away. Damn his sister for knowing he was ticklish there, even after all these years. She soothed any minor irritation he felt by resting her head on his shoulder.

"It's good to have you back home."

"It's good to _be_ home," he replied.

"You were so terrible when you first came back. I was terrified when you first got up on that high wire."

"So you told me, every time."

"I didn't want to lose you again."

"You haven't. You won't. I'm not going anywhere."

She put her arm around him and sighed. "It's selfish of me. I don't want you hurt."

"Then you shouldn't throw knives at me."

"Ha ha." She pinched him again.

"If you weren't my sister," he threatened.

"You'd what? Hit a girl?"

He bumped her with his hip, nearly knocking her off the crate. "I don't hit girls."

"It's one of the things I love about you, baby brother." She made a kissing sound in the air and took another sip of her soda. "You know, I can't think of another place on earth I'd rather be right now. This," she gestured around the grounds, "is home. And you know what they say about home."

He did, and he wrapped his arm around her and squeezed. They sat that way for a few minutes, each sipping their drink and listening to the sounds of revelry coming from the tents.

"You're different," she murmured.

"We're all different, duh. That's why we're here, with the circus."

"Not that. That makes us special. It's just that you seem more settled than you were during the war."

"I had responsibilities then."

"That's what I mean. You have them now, but this time they're your own. You chose to accept the ones here; they weren't forced on you."

There was little to say to that. While he hadn't had much of a choice, it had still been his decision to take the name Trowa Barton and to take part in Operation Meteor. Trying to correct Catherine's perception as far as that went would be a waste of time, for she would always see him as the innocent victim.

Part of him loved her for that; part of him wished she'd see him for who he truly was. Maybe that's why things really hadn't worked out with her and Giovanni. Catherine had very high expectations and although she was smart and savvy, she hated having her romantic illusions spoiled.

"I'm glad you're home," she said again.

"Me too."

She held up her empty glass. "Happy New Year, Trowa."

She was back to calling him Trowa. He wondered how long it had been. When he'd first returned to the circus with her, she'd insisted on calling him Triton, but he never felt it fit him. He'd had a number of aliases in the past – had even spent much of his youth going by the highly creative No Name – but Triton was a name he simply couldn't get used to. She'd given up trying to force the issue, and he wasn't even sure when it had happened.

He touched his glass to hers. "Happy New Year, Catherine."

"Is it?" she asked, turning to face him. "Is it, truly?"

He rapped the edge of his glass against hers, hard enough to resonate loudly. "Truly," he assured her, and with those words, he realized how much he meant them.

* * *

><p><strong>April 15 AC 206<strong>

There was a high pitched groaning sound, coming from the pipes, breaking his reverie, and then the shower was quiet. Quatre was suspiciously dry when he returned from the bathroom, and Trowa looked away.

"Tro."

"I'm listening," he replied. He didn't need to look at Quatre in able to hear him, after all.

"I'm sorry. I reacted badly."

Whether he meant today or eight years ago was a toss up, but Trowa was too emotionally drained to hold a grudge, at least for the moment.

"Apology accepted."

The sound of footsteps and the bed dipping slightly told him that Quatre had chosen to sit next to him. He'd chosen the edge of the mattress furthest from where Trowa was seated, but it indicated that Quatre was receptive to conversation. He would have taken a deep breath, but that would be a sign of weakness, and he'd already shown so much of that to Quatre already, that he refused to display anymore.

He turned to face the man who once proclaimed to love him.

As he'd noticed at the circus, Quatre was older, as was to be expected after eight years. He wasn't all that much taller, but his face was more angular, less boyish, with a trace of stubble. Shirtless, it was easy to see that his upper body was more rigid, more muscular. His hair, once the color of butter, was sprinkled with lighter shades of blond. No, not blond; white.

"Popcorn," he mused aloud.

"You want popcorn?" Quatre sounded confused.

Trowa nodded slowly. "Yeah."

"I'll see if I can get them to bring us some." Quatre got up, but Trowa waved him back down.

"Never mind that. Tell me how. Why." He didn't need to elaborate. There was only one thing he could be referring to.

Quatre sat back down, and it seemed to Trowa that he was now at least a couple inches closer. "I hated it," he confessed. "The job. The thanklessness of it. The contempt."

Trowa looked at him, and Quatre sighed. "It may have taken me a while, but I understand what you were feeling. To be honest, I think I always did, but you didn't make it any easier, you know."

"I know." The admission caught them both by surprise.

It appeared that Quatre was just as unwilling to rake up all the conflicts that working for Winner Enterprises had caused, because he continued on without dwelling on Trowa's confession or making any other references to the corporation.

"I needed to do something meaningful with my own hands. Bring salvation instead of destruction. At least that's what I told myself at first. In the end," Quatre shrugged. "I just like helping animals."

It sounded so much like a little kid's answer that Trowa couldn't help biting back a smile.

"It's OK," Quatre said, fingering his IV tube. "You can laugh if you want."

"I don't want. I think it's admirable. And you might have saved Angus' life." His voice cracked.

Quatre had somehow inched a little closer, and he placed his hand on Trowa's shoulder. "We don't know that yet."

"No, but you came. We didn't think anyone would come."

Quatre snatched his hand away, but Trowa grabbed him by the wrist. "Don't," he said hoarsely. "Don't pull away from me now. Later you can do what you want, but just not right now."

"Trowa, I-"

Trowa kissed him. He knew it was a huge mistake, and he was sure as hell going to regret it later, but right now he just needed Quatre – needed all of him, body and soul. He needed the familiarity of those lips against his. He needed the scent that was uniquely Quat, and he needed that reluctant moan that indicated Quatre's surrender. Trowa was aroused, more than he'd ever been, but he ignored those needs to savor the feel of Quatre's hair between his fingers and his tongue in his mouth. Quatre's fingers touched his arm, lightly, and Trowa maneuvered them so that Quat was on his back and he was nearly lying on top of him.

Fuck, was he hard, and from the bulge he felt pressing against his thigh, Quat was, too.

"Quat, I've missed this," he said, his lips moving along the Quatre's jaw. "I've missed you."

"Trowa," Quat gasped, his hips jerking so his groin came in contact with Trowa's. "Shit, Tro, I think I'm going to..."

He'd forgotten that Quatre had been a bit of a quick draw at times. It threw any intention he'd had of going slow right out the window, and Trowa ground his pelvis against Quatre's. "Do it," he said, laving his tongue along the other man's neck.

"I- I – Trowa, right there, oh, God."

They'd just barely begun and it was already over. All it had taken was listening to that breathy little sigh indicating Quatre's climax, along with the fingernails digging into his side. They were both breathing hard as they lay in a pile of tangled limbs and sticky pants. He collapsed on top of Quatre and gripped the sheet tight.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry."

Quatre's breaths were shaky, and he struggled to work his arm out from under Trowa's body. "Don't be," he said, stroking Trowa's hair. "Please, don't be sorry."

"I didn't mean to… I just wanted to…"

"I could have stopped you. Maybe it was what we both needed."

Trowa felt like Quatre had just punched him in the gut. It had clearly been what they both needed, but for what other purpose than closure? Whether he needed that last chapter or not, he couldn't handle it right now, and he scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over the IV stand in his haste.

"Now I'm the one who has to piss," he flung back over his shoulder, and unlike Quatre, he really did take a shower.

He had to leave his taped arm sticking outside the curtain, and Quatre had wasted all the hot water running the shower for nothing, but as long as it washed all traces of what they'd just done, along with the bitter tears he couldn't help shedding, down the drain, he didn't care.

Quatre had either called for a change of clothes or a set had been left for them, for a clean set of white pants was laid out on the bed for him. The clean bed, not the one they'd dry humped on.

He got dressed slowly, avoiding looking at Quatre, grateful when the vet escaped to the bathroom once more. He noticed that this time, when Quatre emerged, his hair was wet, and clinging to his neck where the skin was slightly reddened from contact with Trowa's stubble. Fucking hell, it wasn't fair that he could feel this turned on so soon afterwards, but then Quatre had always had that kind of effect on him.

He forced himself to think of Angus, and it worked all too well.

Quatre sat down on the rumpled bed, a towel slung around his waist. Trowa still refused to look at him. He'd known he was going to regret it; he just hadn't expected it to be this soon. They both sat there, lost in their own thoughts, and finally he heard the rustle of sheets and looked up to see Quatre stretched out on the bed with his back to Trowa.

He refused to think of Quatre lying in the same bed where they'd just done _that_, because then he'd think of what was probably still on the sheets, and how Quatre's skin was in contact with a part of him, at least probably, and that would just give him reason to go back in for a cold shower all over again.

Which he did anyway, but it still didn't help him fall asleep until it was nearly morning.

* * *

><p><strong>April 16 AC 206<strong>

"Trowa? Are you awake?"

He tried to roll over, to escape the intrusive voice, but that brought his IV line up short and Quatre's grip on his arm prevented him from pulling it out.

"I guess that answers my question,", he muttered.

Trowa heard the wheels of the overbed table and he struggled to sit up. "Morning?"

"Yes. They brought us breakfast."

By that, Quatre meant a hard boiled egg, a cold slice of toast, and a thin liquid that was either vegetable broth or tea.

Trowa reached for the beverage, completely forgetting the IV, and the connector snapped, leaving the tube hanging from the fluid bag.

"Shit," Quatre swore. He swept the tray from the table and went to fetch the utility cart that had apparently been left along with their meals. He took a look at the dressing on Trowa's arm, frowned, and peeled back the adhesive bandage. He pulled it off without warning, and it hurt as Trowa had known it would, but the pain was fleeting. Quatre remained silent throughout the process, leaving Trowa to observe him at work. He was brisk and efficient, and aside from yanking the bandage off, gentle. Unfortunately, he decided it was better to insert the new IV in the back of Trowa's hand rather than in his forearm where it had been, but it wasn't the worst pain he'd ever experienced.

He thought Quatre's hands might have lingered just a little longer than necessary when he placed a new strip of tape over the cannula.

Trowa knew when Quatre deemed the IV acceptable once again. He'd checked the tubing for bubbles, verified the drip rate – twice – and that's when Trowa lifted his newly bandaged hand to brush a lock of hair out of the vet's face.

"What are we doing, Quatre?" he asked. "What the fuck are we doing?"

Quatre leaned into the touch before Trowa had a chance to withdraw his hand. "I don't know, but somehow it feels..."

_Right. It feels right._

The words didn't have to be said, because Trowa felt that way, too. The problem was, he knew his perception of "right" wasn't to be trusted when he was overwrought with concern over Angus, and his sister, and the way he felt when he was this close to a half naked Quatre.

He should feel anger, or resentment, or at least a little confused. He'd felt the latter at first, but the fact remained that even before Quatre walked back into his life unexpectedly, Trowa had still thought of him during a time of need. He could rationalize it as an act of desperation, and it had been, but he still thought of Quatre first, before Heero, before anyone. It didn't necessarily mean anything, but it should mean _something_.

"You never listened to me," Trowa said, curling the lock of blond hair around his finger. "At least, that's how it felt, sometimes. I think maybe you were 'listening' just a little too much."

"No," Quatre replied, covering Trowa's hand with his own. "I might have known what you were feeling, but not why. There were times when I thought I knew you better than you knew yourself."

"Sometimes, Quat, you probably you did. I just wasn't ready for that. I wasn't ready for any of it."

Quatre sighed heavily. "I don't think either of us was."

The stark pain on his face showed how much that admission had cost him. Quatre had been so sure of things back then, so certain that they had something special, something that would defeat all odds. He'd believed that things would all work out, just because they had each other. He'd believed in the impossible. Trowa didn't entirely blame him; the five of them did their share of impossible things back then. They'd also had their share of failures, though, and that was something Quatre never seemed to consider. He wondered now how much of what he'd believed back then was true and how much was a matter of buying into the image of Quatre that he'd built up in his head. He leaned a little closer, encouraged when Quat let him.

The door slid open and they sprang apart. Quatre obviously recognized the intruder despite the surgical mask he wore and leapt to his feet, rushing to greet him. Trowa would swear that the blond was thrumming with nervous energy.

"Talk to me, Bri."

"Tell me, Quat, do you believe in God?"

"Brian..."

The other man held up his hand. "It's mostly rhetorical, anyway. If you do, then there's hope of a miracle. If you don't, it won't change the outcome any."

Angus. They were talking about Angus. Trowa wanted to get up and throttle the man himself but he held his breath, hoping. Just...hoping.

"I swear, Brian, I am _this close_ to-"

"Listen, Quat, I hope you meant what you said about money being no object, because I took you at your word. I can't make any promises, but if we'd waited any longer, you wouldn't even have time to pray for a miracle."

Hope. There was still hope after all.

"Are you Trowa?" Brian Whoever-He-Was asked.

Trowa raised a hand in mock salute.

"I've got a message for you, too. Your sister said as soon as you get out of here, you are, and I quote, so not going near her trailer unless it's with a steam cleaner. Also that you owe her, something about paying for a cut and color, to address the gray hair she now has thanks to you."

"Is that all?"

Brian hesitated, then shrugged. "She wanted me to wish you a Happy New Year. She was...highly energetic," he added tactfully. He turned his attention back to Quatre. "Before I forget, she also wanted me to give you something."

"Oh?" Quatre sounded surprised. "What?"

The other man looked uncomfortably from Trowa to Quatre and back, and finally threw his arms around Quatre and squeezed.

"Happy New Year,' he muttered on his way out. "I'm surrounded by crazies."

Quatre was blushing. Trowa suspected it wasn't because Brian had hugged him, but because it came from Catherine.

"So, Angus?" Trowa probed cautiously. He'd heard what Brian said, but he wanted to hear Quat's interpretation of it.

"Still touch and go," Quatre told him bluntly. "But...he's being treated aggressively."

"So all we can do now is wait."

"All we can do is wait," Quatre agreed, but this time the words held a lot more promise than they had the night before.

* * *

><p><strong>April 22 AC 206<strong>

Sometimes the waiting was the hardest part, but they'd managed. The only channel that came in with any sort of clarity was the 24 hour news station, and by the third day they'd come up with a fake drinking game, assigning each other points rather than downing a shot. By the end of the week, Trowa was up by four points, although Quatre had hotly contesting Trowa's claim that the roving reporter had mispronounced the name of the desk anchor (two points for mispronouncing a name, plus five for it being someone in the studio).

Brian came by with the best news of all on their fourth day of quarantine when he announced that Angus was recovering. His age and the length of time that had lapsed before treatment had made it touch and go for a while, and it would take a while longer before his lungs were completely clear, but he'd still beaten the odds, proving him a fitting companion to a former Gundam pilot. Brian hadn't even finished giving them the details when Trowa had grabbed Quat by both hands and danced around in a circle with him before pulling him close and giving him a quick kiss on the mouth. He hadn't even considered what he'd just done in front of an audience. He was too relieved – too ecstatically happy – to care.

He and Quatre parted ways with a handshake followed by a bone-crushing hug that didn't last nearly long enough. Neither of them promised to keep in touch, but the possibility was there, considering that the circus had a tiger and three elephants in addition to Angus, and Catherine now knew of a reliable vet who made house calls.

When his sister came to pick him up, she gave Quatre another hug, in person, and kissed him soundly on the mouth.

"I can't thank you enough," she gushed, clasping both of his hands tightly and pumping them up and down.

He was blushing again when he finally managed to extract his fingers from hers, and he raised his hand in a farewell gesture.

Trowa followed Catherine to her car, then stopped and turned around.

"Quat!"

Quatre looked up, making full eye contact with Trowa for the first time in eight years. "Yeah?"

Trowa swallowed, licked his lips, then swallowed again. "I"ll see ya around."

Quatre nodded. "See ya."

A car pulled up, the driver honked the horn, and Quatre waved one last time before getting in the passenger seat. Trowa watched them drive away until the license plate on the back bumper was no longer visible.

Catherine pinched him in the side.

"What the hell, Cath?"

"The worry you put me through, little brother. I cannot tell you how scared I was when that young man ordered me out of my own trailer, and then when that ambulance came and took you away!"

He only half listened to her tirade on the way home. It was a comforting sound, listening to her, and he knew that although she had been concerned, she was half teasing him as well. Only half, though, because she pinched him again when they arrived at his apartment and she sternly warned him that if he did not call her in the morning, she would come all the way down here to check on him herself.

It was the first time he'd been back to his apartment since early February. They didn't often travel during the winter months, and while Catherine and nearly everyone else preferred to stick close to the next location on their tour schedule, Trowa chose to escape for a week or two. He loved his circus family, but sometimes the constant traveling got to him, especially in locations where smog or city lights blocked out any view of the stars. Despite his meager furnishings, there was comfort in having a physical place he could call home. He'd tried only once to explain it to Catherine, who was confused how someone could believe that home was where the heart and then turn around and not follow the heart, but now that he was older, he suspected she understood more than she let on.

Catherine was afraid of getting close to anyone. The death of her parents and fear of losing Trowa again left her unable to open her heart to someone new. If Giovanni hadn't worked for the circus, she would have found another reason to avoid letting their relationship go beyond a few illicit liasons. It was why she'd been on the verge of tears when Angus fell sick. The circus was all she had, and she fought with everything in her to protect them. It actually made her refusal to accept Giovanni's suit all the more tragic. Circus life wasn't the same as working for a corporation; there wasn't the same pecking order, and it was typical for a husband and wife to jointly run the show. It was what the Blooms had done, if Catherine's stories were to be believed.

A family could be both a blessing and a curse, and he was, all things considered, one of the luckiest men in the world.

* * *

><p><strong>September 3 AC 206<strong>

"Trowa?" Catherine called.

He couldn't hear her over the spray of water from the hose. He knew from experience the elephants would somehow find dirt to throw over the backs, forming a muddy paste, but at least they'd be clean for a little while.

"Trowa Barton, I need you right this second!"

He heard her shrill cries, and he cursed himself as he turned off the water. He hadn't been expecting it quite so soon, but he'd known that it was a possibility at any time.

"Trowa!" she was screaming at the top of her lungs now, and he burst into her trailer, out of breath, half expecting to see the baby's head peeking out from between his sister's legs. He was relieved to see that wasn't the case, at least not yet.

"It's time?"

"No, I just called you in here to bring me ice cream. Yes, it's time, and Giovanni went to-"

"Bring you ice cream. I know. I saw his truck leaving."

She waved him over, and he headed to her side, then remembered what he'd just been doing and went to the sink to wash his hands first.

"Want me to call and have him meet us at the hospital?"

"No," she gasped, reaching out blindly to grab two of his fingers. She squeezed. "No, no time."

"No time? You're having the baby here? Right now?"

She slapped him on the side of the head, a habit she'd picked up from her boyfriend. "You're usually much smarter than this." She squeezed his fingers again.

"There must be someone I can call," he said.

"Women had babies all the time without help," she groaned, although it sounded more like she was trying to convince herself that it would be all right.

"Most women weren't carrying the spawn of a man as wide as this trailer."

"You're just jealous," she grunted.

Trowa watched her face contort with pain, and tried unsuccessfully to get her to let go of his fingers. At least if she was holding his entire hand, it wouldn't hurt so much.

"Catherine, are you pushing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"I don't think you're supposed to do that yet."

"Why not?" she started to cry. "I don't know what else to do."

Trowa got up and reached for Catherine's cell phone, sitting on the edge of the counter. With her death grip on his fingers, he could only swipe at the corner of it, then he sent it spinning closer to the wall. He made one last lunge for it and wanted to cry himself, with relief, when his fingers closed around it.

His relief was short lived when he realized there was no cell phone service here in the trailer.

"Catherine, I just need to go outside for a couple of seconds, OK?"

"No! Don't leave me alone in here!"

He tried pulling his hand away again. "Catherine, be reasonable."

"You try being reasonable when a baby elephant is moving through your birth canal!"

For someone who'd just taken offense at his barbs about the size of her baby's father, she had no problem dissing him herself. He just hoped Giovanni would get here soon.

* * *

><p>Unfortunately for Giovanni, he was having troubles of his own. His truck got a flat tire, he'd forgotten to charge his cell phone and now the battery was dead, and worst of all, Cathy's ice cream was melting. Melting! She'd have his head on a platter if he brought her a pint of double chocolate chocolate fudge soup.<p>

Their relationship had been on again, off again since that first time he'd kissed her. She'd slapped him soundly, but instead of turning on her heel and storming off, she'd grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him back. He should have known then what he was letting himself in for, but he'd never known a woman like Catherine Bloom. She was a contradiction, his Cathy was, and for all the reasons he told himself he was better off without her when she'd break up with him – again – he had twice as many reasons why he wanted her back. Part of the reason was simply because of the traveling. It was hard to form a lasting relationship with someone when you were on the road more days out of the year than home. The other reason was he'd never found a woman he desired for her mind as well as her body, before Catherine. He'd had his share of shallow women who'd admired him for his body and brute strength, and there had been a number of years when he'd enjoyed it, too.

Things with Catherine were different in nearly every way imaginable. It became almost a game between them, although the game usually left him frustrated, but he had too much respect for her to push for more than she was willing to give.

She'd blamed him for her current condition, even though they'd only done it once. They'd been responsible and he'd worn a condom, but the damn thing had broken during his final thrust into her. Sperm of Steel, she'd spat at him when she stormed into his tent to tell him what their one night of passion had resulted in. He didn't correct her about all the other times they'd found alternate ways of pleasuring each other. Even if he hadn't been shocked by the news, he was fond of his man parts and wanted to keep them attached. A man didn't piss off a woman who wielded knives the way Cathy did, even if he was crazy in love with her.

He hadn't realized that he was gripping his cell phone so hard, he'd crushed it to pieces with his bare hands. He smacked himself in the head when the cracked casing and the majority of the internal circuitry fell to the ground. He was so stupid; he had a car charger somewhere in the truck and if he'd thought about it instead of worrying about Cathy's hormonal rages, he could have plugged the phone in and called to let them know he'd be late, then he could have contacted roadside assistance.

She was going to tell him that it was his own fault, and this time he couldn't disagree. Not when he'd just gotten a flat last week and was still driving around on the spare. He'd had time to replace it; they weren't leaving town until the end of the week. He was frugal by nature, though, and didn't want to buy tires at the first place he went to. Those guys would rip him off if he seemed desperate. Giovanni looked woefully at empty space where a spare tire should have been. All the strength in the world was not going to make a new one appear out of thin air.

Cathy was going to be _so_ pissed at him.

* * *

><p>He'd managed to knock a roll of paper towels to the floor, run a few under the faucet, and wipe the sweat from her forehead with them, enduring insults about men in general the whole while.<p>

"I am going to find that flute you think I don't know about, break it into pieces, and shove every one of them up your ass!" she screeched when she grew tired of blaming his entire gender and decided to focus on him instead.

In any other situation, he would have been alarmed that she knew about that little secret, but he had bigger things to worry about than whether she knew about only the flute's existence, or about the nights when he couldn't sleep and went outside to play under the stars.

"I don't know why you're blaming me for what your boyfriend did to you," he said when she called him a fucking bastard for the third time.

"He's not my boyfriend," she said, reaching up and grabbing his collar.

"So you let just any guy get in your pants."

She was close to strangling him, but at least she wasn't trying to push. He had a feeling he was going to have to check down there to figure out when she was supposed to, but he was postponing that as long as he could.

"He is not. Just. Any. Guy," she told him, pulling his collar tighter with every word.

"Air would be good," he croaked, and she released her grip. He wiped the hair off her face again with the damp towel, only to have her bat his hand away.

"Too warm," she complained. "I want a cold one."

"If this is how you are with Gio, it's no wonder he's taking the long way home."

"Not funny, Trowa," she wailed. "Oh, shit, this hurts."

He wet another towel for her and dabbed at her face. "Hang in there, Cath. Just hang in there."

"I've been hanging in there. I just want this to be over."

It was the complete opposite of what Trowa wanted – not because he enjoyed his sister's pain, but because he wasn't prepared for this anymore than she was. Every time he suggested at least trying to make it to the hospital, she accused him of wanting his nephew to be born in a backseat with no one to help. Attempts to point out they had no one to help them here were countered with the fact that at least here they had medical supplies, soap, and water, and people who knew where they were.

The only problem with that logic was that everyone else on the grounds, those who hadn't gone into town for the night, were engaged in a high stakes poker game right now. Whether they hadn't heard Catherine screaming earlier or they'd brushed it off as another of her third trimester tantrums didn't matter, because the fact was they weren't here and Catherine refused to let him go outside to make a call, let alone run for help.

"Oh. Oh, Trowa," she burst into tears.

"Catherine?"

"I don't want you to leave me, but you're going to have to. I can't…I can't do this alone."

She finally released the death grip on his fingers, allowing the blood to begin flowing again. He'd deal with the discomfort later; his was nothing compared to Catherine's and he had to get someone here who had any kind of birthing experience.

He grabbed the phone and flung the door open, dialing her doctor's emergency number as he ran for the tent where the poker game was going on.

Catherine was beginning to regret letting him go. She was going to have this baby here, alone, with no one to catch him or make sure he was OK, and she had no idea what she was doing. She couldn't even cry properly, because everytime she started bawling, another contraction would hit and she couldn't catch her breath long enough to do more than whimper.

She wanted to scream for Trowa to come back, but she didn't know if he was just outside or if he'd gone to find the others, and she didn't want to waste what little energy she had unless she had no other choice.

The next contraction hit. They were closer together, and that meant she was closer to having the baby. Oh, why didn't she pay more attention in those birthing classes?

Breathing. There was something about breathing in there. She sucked in a lungful of air and held it as long as she could, releasing it on a cry of pain as the next contraction hit. Holding her breath was the cure for hiccups, not childbirth.

The door slammed open and she was weak with relief. "Trowa, what took so fucking long?"

It wasn't Trowa who knelt down next to her. She looked past the doctor, at Giovanni who was standing there wringing his hands, and yelled, "you brought the fucking vet?"

Quatre touched her shoulder and said, "I'm going to need to take a look at your progress."

He glanced at Giovanni, and Catherine wailed, "you don't need his fucking permission, just do something!"

It seemed to take forever. She hurled insults at Giovanni most of the time, with a few thrown toward Trowa, when he returned. For the most part, she spared Quatre, although she did ask him once if his experience was with puppies or kittens.

"Yes," he'd replied. "And some foals and a couple of calves. One of those was an elephant calf, though."

That had made Trowa laugh, which earned him slap in the head from Giovanni.

He'd looked at Quatre, who'd turned around at the sound, and they exchanged smiles before Quatre had returned his attention to his very human patient.

When it was time for her to start pushing, Quatre gestured for Giovanni to come over and hold her hand, which he did, dropping kisses on her brow with every push. She was visibly exhausted by then and saved all her criticisms for Quatre, who took it without complaint, even when she told him if her baby oinked when he came out, it would be Quatre's fault.

He did look a little like a pig to Trowa, but that was probably because he hadn't been cleaned yet. Quatre gave the honor of bathing the newborn to Trowa, while Giovanni complimented Catherine like she'd just discovered the cure for male pattern baldness.

That was until Quatre told her she wasn't quite done, and explained the concept of placental expulsion. It appeared neither parent had paid much attention during their childbirth class, as this news was welcomed with something akin to disbelief, although not nearly as much as when Quatre asked her, in all seriousness, if they were planning on saving it to for later consumption. Even though Trowa was familiar with the practice, living among so many different cultures as he did, if anyone had asked, he'd have said it was a devious trick of Quatre's to keep Catherine's mind off the fact that she still had a bit more pushing to do.

Afterwards, while Catherine and Giovanni cooed over their son, Trowa followed Quatre who was headed outside to bury the placenta. It was another tradition he was familiar with, and he chose a location near Giovanni's tent. The traditions he knew didn't say anything about good fortune, but he figured Gio could use all the help he could get.

He insisted on doing all the digging; it was the least he could do. When the job was done, they washed their hands under the outside faucet attached to the animal feed shed, and he felt that same sense of rightness he'd felt during their week of quarantine.

"Thanks, Quat. For everything."

"You don't have to thank me," Quatre replied predictably. "But you're welcome."

Trowa leaned his elbow against the shed. "In all the excitement, I never did get a chance to ask. I mean, it's obvious Gio brought you here, but how?"

Quat shook his hands off, flicking his fingers toward the ground, and shrugged. "I don't know, I just…" he trailed off and shrugged again.

"Knew. You just knew."

He nodded, and Trowa straightened and took a step closer.

"Quat?"

"Hmmm?"

He was within arm's reach now. "Do you know what's going to happen now?"

It was a rhetorical question, because he pulled Quat to him and kissed him as if his life depended on it. He didn't care that Quatre had blood on his clothes, and it seemed that Quatre didn't care either, because he buried his fingers in Trowa's hair and kissed him back.

Quatre was the one to end the kiss, pushing at Trowa's chest and taking a step back.

"We're doing it again, Tro."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"No! I don't mean it that way. I mean, there's always something else going on. It's the circumstances that are forcing us together."

"Maybe there's such a thing as fate."

Quatre yanked at his own hair in frustration. "And maybe we're just seeking comfort for the moment!"

Trowa didn't believe that, but Quatre was right. They'd seen each other three times since their breakup – once during their exposure to the plague, once when Quat came by to check on Angus, and tonight.

But Quatre had _known_. He'd known Trowa needed him tonight, and that had to count for something.

He nodded. "OK. Maybe we are."

Quatre didn't look very happy that Trowa was agreeing with him, but he nodded.

"Before you leave, can I ask you just one more thing?"

The blond nodded. Again. The guy was beginning to look like a bobblehead.

"What are you doing tomorrow night?"

"I'm on call" His eyes opened wide, and he looked wary. "Why?"

"Until when?"

"That's two questions," Quatre pointed out. "Nine o'clock."

"Want to have dinner? Maybe see a movie?"

The corners of Quatre's eyes crinkled, the beginnings of a smile, and then Trowa saw the shadow of doubt cross his face.

"I work a lot of long hours."

"I assumed you did."

"I'm not always home when I think I'm going to be."

"You never were."

"I get calls in the middle of the night."

"Quat, if you don't want to go on a date with me, just say so."

"No," Quatre replied. "I mean, no, I don't not want to go, not that I don't want to go. I mean, yes, if you want, I'd love to catch a late film with you. We can even go earlier, as long as I have my cell phone on vibrate."

"Nah," Trowa said. "We'll go later. That way I can at least pretend I have you all to myself for a couple of hours."

This time Quatre did smile, from ear to ear, and it lit up his face just like Trowa knew it would. It made his knees weak and caused a little pang in his chest.

"OK. It's a date."

"Meet you at the Royal around 9:30?"

"No," Quatre said. "If you don't mind, I'll come pick you up."

Trowa patted his pockets, looking for a pen he didn't have. "Sure. Let me give you my address."

Quatre flushed guiltily, and Trowa laughed.

"You don't need it, because you already know where I live."

"Not on purpose," Quat protested. "But you did call nearly everyone else when you needed help moving in."

"I'm not mad, Quat," he said reassuringly. "I'm actually…kind of glad."

He walked Quat back to his car, amused to see that he hadn't arrived in an ambulance or medi-van. The man might know things, but he didn't know _everything_.

Before Quatre could open the door, though, Trowa spun him around and kissed him again, shoving his thigh between Quatre's legs this time, and enjoying the answering moan. This time he was the one who pulled away.

He patted Quatre on the back. "See ya around eight, then," he said cheerfully, and walked to his own car. There was no reason for him to stay here tonight, and he wanted to clean up his place before company came.

He was whistling as he followed Quatre's car to the main road, a raunchy tune he'd learned from Giovanni when the strongman had been in his cups. Company was _definitely_ going to come tomorrow night - several times, if he was lucky. Quatre's car turned left. Trowa turned right, and a grin spread across his face.

He was, all things considered, one of the luckiest men in the world.


	6. Chapter 6

**December 31 AC 207**

Heero was sitting at an empty table, scrolling through something on his cell phone. To Duo, this was in clear violation of party etiquette, and naturally he was going to have to point out Heero's social faux pas in his own way.

"Whatcha got there, Zero One?" he asked, coming up behind Heero and resting his chin on his shoulder.

Heero shrugged in an attempt to dislodge him, but Duo took that as a challenge and resisted. "C'mon, dude, if you're playing Angry Birds, I wanna watch to see how you get the piggies. I'll bet you cheat and send for the Mighty Eagle."

Without turning around, Heero splayed his fingers over Duo's face and shoved backwards, successfully removing Duo from his shoulder. Damn, but he could play rough. It was actually kind of flattering, but he couldn't let the assault go without comment.

"Ow, Heero," he complained mockingly. "You could have given me whiplash with that move, ya know."

That should have earned a glare, or a withering gaze, or at least a long suffering look, but Heero refused to look up from his phone. Oh, he was good, but in Duo's opinion, not as good as _he_ was.

"Fine, fine," he said. "But I'll be back. With reinforcements."

Heero paid him no mind, and Duo left to wander around the room, snagging a bacon-wrapped something or other from one of the trays being circulated around the room and popping it into his mouth. He had to hand it to Quatre, the guy really knew how to throw a party. Duo looked around the room, in search of his friend's blond head, but to no avail.

"Looking for someone?" Trowa asked.

"Your better half," Duo replied with a grin. He waved the toothpick from his hors d'oeuvre. "And these were great."

Trowa stared at the clean toothpick. "Thanks. We have a whole box of them in the kitchen, if you'd like any more."

Duo's face lit up with interest, and then he looked at the toothpick he held and wagged his finger at Trowa. "What is the world coming to?" he bemoaned. "Left is right and up is down. Yuy is ignoring me – me!" he emphasized incredulously, "and now you're moonlighting as a comedian."

Trowa rolled his eyes.

"That! That's what Heero should be doing right now! OK, new plan. Winner out, Barton in. Come with me!" Duo grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him over to where Heero had been sitting.

"That asshole," he said, realizing his quarry had escaped. "He did it to me again."

"And what exactly did he do?" Trowa asked.

"He got away!"

Trowa's eyes flicked down to his sleeve, where Duo still had a grip on it, and back to Duo.

"I don't know what Quatre sees in you," Duo complained, throwing his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "You and Yuy, both, with your…" his finger drew small circles in front of Trowa's face.

"Devastatingly handsome looks," Trowa deadpanned.

"Ha! Don't quit your day job, and you wish. I mean that talking without talking thing, with the looks and the eyebrows."

"And the hands," Heero appeared behind Duo without warning, "Don't forget the hands." He ran a finger down Duo's spine, causing Duo to yelp.

At Trowa's raised eyebrows, Duo scowled. "That wasn't what it sounded like." He looked from one to the other, and shook his head. "OK, fine. You two hang here like a couple of super bad asses. We'll see if you still think you're all that before the night is over. Mwa ha ha," he cackled, using his best late night horror show host imitation, and backed away from them, making wavy fingers in their direction the whole time.

Duo wanted to laugh when he saw Trowa turn to Heero with a "what the fuck?" expression. This party was already more fun than he'd expected.

He nearly walked right past Quatre, who was standing near an ice sculpture of a lion. He was in deep discussion with Sally and Wufei, gesturing up and down suggestively. Duo didn't point that out; for all the fun he had with adolescent humor, there was a time and a place for that sort of thing. Besides, he wanted to know what the other three found so interesting.

It turned out to be acupuncture. It was one of the techniques Quatre had learned while on his sabbatical. This party was sort of a welcome home party, for both of them, actually. Trowa had flown to Asia at the end of the summer to be with Quatre and they'd just returned a few days earlier.

The reason it was "sort of" a welcome home party was because it was also a belated birthday party for Trowa's nephew, who had turned one in September. Catherine was not about to let the milestone for her son go without celebration when her only brother was out of the country. Duo had overheard Rashid earlier in the evening relating how Catherine had swooped in like a little general and put them, and her new husband, to work readying the Winner mansion for the event.

Duo didn't understand why Trowa and Quatre had ever wanted to go off and live in a tiny two-bedroom apartment when they had all of this and were hardly ever home anyway. Just looking around the room gave Duo ideas of where he would want the surround sound system and which wall he'd have chosen for the buffet table if this was his home.

He spied Trowa's brother-in-law at said table loading up a plate. It was amazing that much food could fit on there without spilling over the edge. The man could certainly eat, that was for sure. Duo thought he saw Catherine over by Trowa and Heero. A dark-haired boy who looked closer to three years old was in her arms, and she was dancing around with him. The kid laughed every time she spun in a circle, and she waltzed away, getting lost in the crowd once more.

Definitely a cute kid. Good thing he was going to be big like his daddy, though, with a name like Angus.

Duo returned his attention to the discussion of acupuncture. Sally was interested from a medical point of view. Wufei was more impressed by the reintroduction of Traditional Chinese Medicine, which had fallen out of favor decades earlier, around the time Lagrange Point 5 was created and the Long family banished there. Duo eyed the space between the two Preventers and wondered if the way Sally's arm kept brushing against Wufei's was unintentional.

"Duo!" Quatre exclaimed, finally noticing his friend standing there. "I feel like I haven't seen you all night. Excuse me, Sally, Wufei, but I've been meaning to show Duo something."

"You have?" Duo asked as he followed Quatre across the room.

"No," Quatre admitted. "But I know you're up to something, and I assume you came looking for me to help you with it."

"Finally!" Duo said, clapping the other man on the back. "A man with brains. This is what makes you the better half."

Quatre tipped his head to the side. "Is there a better half?"

Duo was about to tell him of course there was, for example, himself, but Quatre looked so sincere he had to answer honestly.

"Nah. It's just fun messing with Heero."

He mightn't have bothered answering at all, though, because Quatre was staring off in the distance. It didn't take a genius to figure out that's where Heero and Trowa were. Or at least where Trowa was; Duo was sure Quatre didn't particularly if Heero was with him or not. He turned in the general direction of Quatre's gaze. Nope, he was right the first time. Barton and Yuy were still talking, and Heero's cell phone was nowhere in sight.

"Sure," Duo huffed. "He gives up Angry Birds for your boyfriend, but not for me."

"Angry birds?" Quatre looked around ceiling, completely befuddled. It was almost adorable, if Duo was into that type.

"It's a gaming app," Duo said. "Don't worry. I doubt you'll have any avian emergencies to take care of tonight."

"Don't say that!" Quatre looked alarmed. "It could still happen!"

"You are _not_ on call tonight, are you?" Duo asked, and then he realized Quatre had been putting him on. "Fucking hell, Quatre. I swear, Only you would work during your own party. I need new friends. You're ridiculous, all of you."

Quatre's gaze softened. "We are, aren't we? All of us?"

Duo sighed. Quatre had it bad. Not bad like back in '95, when Quatre had been a moony-eyed teenager with hearts and rainbows shooting out of his pores, but still bad. It was hard to explain, but it was almost as if Quatre liked the idea of Trowa being a pain in the ass.

It was almost enough to make Duo envious, but deep down, he kind of liked when Heero was a pain in the ass, too.

He threw his arm around Quatre's shoulder. "Lucky bastard."

"Same to you."

"Are we talking about the same thing, here, Quatre?"

"Mmm hmm."

Oh, yeah, Quatre had it bad. Duo was willing to bet he could strip down to his skivvies, stand on the table and yodel Beethoven's fifth through seventh symphonies, and Quatre wouldn't even notice.

Heero, on the other hand, would…

Duo sighed. As tempting as the idea was, he wasn't about to test that theory out.

He was slightly mollified when it looked like Heero wasn't faring any better than he was. Trowa had just turned toward them, and the smile he gave was clearly not meant to include Duo. He rolled his eyes. It looked like it was up to him to do all the work. "Come on, Romeo," he said, stepping behind Quatre and propelling him straight ahead. "So far away, so many dreams yet to find, see the jungle when it's wet with rain…"

"Those are two different songs," Quatre murmured, but otherwise he didn't seem to mind anything Duo was doing.

They didn't even make it halfway across the room when Duo was intercepted by a hand on his collar.

"Damn it, Heero, I'm playing Cupid here."

"Not without a diaper," Heero said dryly, nodding his head to indicate that Quatre was moving along just fine without him. He dragged Duo all the way back to where he'd started.

Quatre and Trowa watched their friends bickering across the room. There was no real heat in their argument.

"They're so different from each other," Quatre noted.

"Duo's been driving him crazy," Trowa said. "According to Heero, he's completely obsessed with rearranging the furniture. They'll just get everything set up one way, and then Duo will decide it's not quite how he wants it. He likes having 'control over his space'."

"Heero gets him back, though. Apparently he acts like he doesn't notice the difference when it's all done, even if he's done half the work."

"Duo likes to be noticed," Trowa agreed.

Quatre watched Heero put his hand on Duo's shoulder. Duo knocked it right back off.

"Blue footed boobies."

"Blue footed what?"

"Boobies," Quatre repeated. "They're birds. That's what they remind me of. This fighting they do, it's their mating dance."

"I thought they were already a couple."

"Maybe. Sometimes. It's hard to tell."

That could mean anything from Duo confiding in Quatre about something to Quatre detecting conflicing emotions from both of them to the simple observation that they just didn't act like a couple should.

Duo reached into Heero's front pocket and whipped the cell phone out, holding it at arm's length as he scrolled through it. Heero looked half annoyed, half amused. When Duo slapped the phone back in Heero's hand, he put his hand back on Duo's shoulder. This time Duo not only let it stay there, he gripped the front of Heero's shirt and gave a little tug. Heero obliged by moving a step closer, and Duo whispered something in his ear that made Heero crack a smile. Quatre was right; it _was_ a little like a dance.

"Maybe it's not that it's hard to tell; it's just hard," Trowa said finally. "Maybe that's what works for them."

The lights went down low, indicating there was less than a minute left in the year. Most of the guests moved outside, leaving Quatre and Trowa alone in the banquet room.

"We're going to miss the fireworks," Quatre said.

"We are." Trowa moved closer, and cupped Quatre's face. "But I don't really care."

Quatre slipped a finger between the top two buttons on Trowa's shirt and pulled. "Me neither."

They knew when it was midnight from the sound of noisemakers, but they were already kissing by then. There was no point in wishing each other a Happy New Year. Happiness wasn't something they could wish for; it was something they had to create themselves.

Quatre snapped the threads holding the very top button in place. His fingers abandoned their grip on the shirt altogether and moved to Trowa's nape.

Two sets of eyes were watching them through the French doors.

"See the pyramids, along the Nile," Duo sang _sotto voce_. With his attempt to be quiet, his voice was falsetto and off key, and he winced at the sound, but Heero had laid down the dare. He crossed his arms and glared at Heero. _Top that._

"Watch the sunrise on a tropic isle." Heero rose to the challenge, singing just as terribly.

Duo threw his arm around him. Fucking hell, he was having fun, and since the game was on, there was no reason to be discreet. He made eye contact with Heero; Heero nodded in response. Together they turned toward the house and pushed the French doors wide open.

"Just remember darlin', all the whiiiiiiile!" they sang the next line together, at the top of their lungs.

Quatre and Trowa broke apart long enough to stare at their friends, who seemed to take that as encouragement. By the third verse, Duo was down on one knee, his arm outstretched. Heero was egging Duo on by clasping his hands in front of his chest and batting his eyes. It was so over the top ridiculous, it was hard not to stare at either of them.

"Maybe you'll be lonesome too…and bluuuuuuuue…"

It was a very old, romantic song, and and Heero and Duo weren't just singing "You Belong to Me", they were determined to outdo each other.

Quatre couldn't help it. He started laughing, uncontrollably, as their friends pseudo-serenaded them. He laced his fingers together with Trowa's, and Trowa gave them a brief squeeze in response. The sentiment behind the song really _was_ romantic, but terribly misguided. Trowa didn't belong to Quatre, nor was the opposite true. They didn't belong to each other, either. Belonging suggested that they were together because they _should_ be.

That didn't mean they were entirely against giving the people what they wanted – the people being a couple of former Gundam pilots who could not carry a tune. Trowa released Quatre's hand and slid it across his back and rested it on his hip. Quatre raised his chin, expecting another kiss, and Trowa surprised him by spinning him away from his body.

"And now, we dance," he said, holding Quatre's arm out in classic tango fashion.

"Oh, no they didn't!" Duo refused to be outdone, and he dragged Heero inside, grabbing a lily from a nearby vase and shoving the stem into Heero's mouth.

It was silly and embarrassing and fun in a way that made Trowa feel like he was fifteen. He and Quatre reached the end of the room and quickly switched hands in an effort to beat Heero and Duo on their way back across.

Tonight wasn't about doing anything they should, and it was liberating as hell.

He and Quatre hadn't gotten back together because they should have. If history taught them anything, they probably _shouldn't _have. They weren't together because Trowa couldn't imagine a life without Quatre in it. He could; he'd lived it for nearly a decade.

There were no illusions this time around. This time they were going to make it work because…Well, just because. Because sometimes love defied definition.

He laughed when Duo stumbled, because he'd seen Quatre's heel get in the way a split second before. This not-quite-three-legged race was becoming rather cutthroat. When Duo retaliated and hipchecked Quatre, Trowa caught him. Their gazes met, and the Battle of the Tango was forgotten for that single moment in time.

He didn't need to define love to know when it was staring him right in the face.


End file.
